


Unholy Terror

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Sam Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, Gen, Guilty Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Major Character Injury, Season/Series 09, Tortured Castiel, but they're on the road to it, canon typical torture, episode AU, i should say better ending, it's not like all their issues get magically resolved, references to worse torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-16 00:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13625109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: AU 9x9 “Holy Terror” - Dean successfully gets Sam to expel Gadreel. Cas doesn’t escape from Malachi. And what’s left of the broken shells of Team Free Will may be beyond repair.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am alive! Feeling much better, but sticking with bed rest for the next few days so I can go back to work Monday. So here we are, a little late but still arrived. This story is based on a prompt from Miyth.
> 
> Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. Some dialogue in this story is lifted from episode 9x9 "Holy Terror"; it's not mine, either. Most of this chapter follows canon for the set-up, but then we go way AU. And it's an angst fest.

 

"So, he's better?" Dean asked, glancing from the nighttime road to the passenger seat.

Sam—or really Ezekiel—was staring straight forward, almost statue like, with a slight dip in his brow he always had that clued Dean in to when said angel had taken the reins.

"Yes," he replied in that monotonous voice. "Sam is much improved."

Well, that was good to hear.

"It shouldn't be much longer now."

Dean's jaw ticked in minor annoyance. "Okay, you know you said the same thing to me last week, right?" At this point, he didn't know whether to think Zeke was lying, stalling, or just not as capable of healing Sam as he'd proclaimed.

"As I told you when we met," the angel replied, giving him a pointed look. "This will take time."

Dean huffed in frustration. Right. Time. It'd been a couple of months already; how much time did the miracle worker need?

"Okay, well, go then," he snapped. "Heal. I'd like my brother back, please."

And not just in this moment, but for  _good_.

Zeke was quiet for a beat. "I must say, Dean," he began stiffly. "I'm very uncomfortable with this whole trip. Investigating crimes involving angels—or anything involving angels—puts me, and therefore, Sam, at risk."

Dean shook his head in mounting vexation; he was really getting tired of Zeke playing the 'Sam's at risk' card. Especially since they were  _supposed_  to be getting to the point where Sam wouldn't need Zeke anymore.

"Well, family business, Zeke. Okay? If we ignore this, Sam's gonna think that something fishy's going on."

Zeke's gaze bored into him for a moment before he said snippily, "Then I trust you will be discreet."

Dean might have responded in kind if his brain hadn't picked up on something else from this conversation. "Wait, if you know where we're going, that means you've been listening in. Are you- are you hearing everything between me and Sam?" he asked suspiciously.

Because that was taking this whole awkward arrangement to another level of rubbing Dean the wrong way. Sure, Zeke was helping Sam, but Dean did not like the idea that he was privy to every single thing going on between them.

"No," the angel said. "Just a word here and there."

Dean flicked a skeptical look at him. A word here and there was enough for him to figure out what case they were going to investigate?

"I have better things to do with my time than eavesdrop," Zeke went on, pausing to give Dean a pointed look. "Like heal your brother."

Dean frowned. "Okay, 'cause here's the thing—"

There was a flash of blue in the dark, and suddenly Sam was talking over him.

"I mean, I was gonna say, it seems like it's getting really quiet out there, you know?" he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Not a peep from the angels, even Buddy Boyle goes off the air and stops recruiting for them."

Dean tried to mentally backtrack to what he and Sam had been talking about before Zeke had emerged to give a sit rep.

"Obviously calm before the storm," he said, because that was an answer that was usually true.

Sam lolled his gaze out the window. "Yeah, maybe," he murmured. His attention caught on something, and he abruptly twisted around as the Impala sped past it, expression scrunching up in confusion.

Dean frowned and glanced behind them, though it was too dark to see anything. "What?"

"That sign said, 'Fort Collins, fifty miles.'"

"So?"

Sam's brows shot upward. "So, last time I looked, like, twelve seconds ago, uh, Fort Collins was a  _hundred_  miles."

Dean moved his mouth soundlessly trying to think of a way to explain that. Damn Ezekiel and his bad timing. It was hard enough keeping Sam in the dark—which Dean hated—but if Sam ever found out and kicked the angel out before he was fully healed, Dean might find himself right back in the same position of frantically trying to save his brother's life.

"Well, hey, man, ever since that goddess got her hooks into you—"

"No, it's more than Vesta," Sam cut him off. He shook his head in rising agitation. "I mean, this kind of thing's been happening to me. Like, like, there are chunks of time just… _missing_. Like there are times when I'm…not here."

Dean's chest tightened. He just had to keep his cool, play if off…not arouse any more suspicions.

"Well, like I've said—"

"Yes, the trials," Sam interrupted harshly. "I know. I heard you. I heard you when you said it the last week and the week before that and the week before that."

"Yeah!" Dean cut in. "Because…" he fumbled. "Damn straight the trials. They whacked you, man. You're not up to warp speed yet, okay? But you will be." He had an angel's guarantee.

Dean turned and smiled at his brother. "Would I lie?"

Sam's expression was pinched as he met Dean's gaze, and the smile faltered. No, Dean wasn't lying about this. And he wasn't technically lying about the other stuff, just omitting certain details.

But once Sam was back on his feet, it'd be worth it. And Dean could put this whole sordid mess behind him.

* * *

They pulled up outside the crime scene the next day, a roadhouse not too far from the highway. The place was packed with crime scene techs and investigators, as a massacre of this scale drew a lot of attention.

Dean and Sam headed up the steps to the uniformed officer manning the entrance to the roadhouse, and held up their FBI badges. The guy barely gave their credentials a look before his brows rose.

"Ah, one of your guys is here already," he informed them.

Dean paused, and exchanged a look with Sam as they quickly stuffed their IDs back in their suit jackets. Great. Taking charge was easy to do with local authorities, but it got trickier when real FBI was on the scene.

Bracing himself, they headed inside.

The place was a mess—overturned furniture everywhere, multiple pools of blood spread throughout the room, each one attached to the chalky remnants of angel wings burned into the floor or walls. Local cops were gonna have a hell of a time sorting all this out.

There were more uniformed officers and guys with cameras, as well as a handful of men in suits. Sam cleared his throat to draw attention, but the man who looked over didn't say anything or approach. Probably wasn't FBI.

Dean looked around, and had to do a double-take at the guy in the opposite corner. Oh, for the love of…

He headed over, Sam following.

Cas glanced up and spotted them. "Ah, my colleagues," he said to the man he'd been talking to, and the gentleman stepped away.

Dean came to a stop and fixed Cas with an unamused look. This was not what the ex-angel was supposed to be doing with his time.

Sam, on the other hand, was bobbing his head in barely concealed delight, and clapped Cas on the arm. "Agent," he said, half in question, half in enjoyment.

Cas's eyes sparked, and his attempt to return a serious, "Agent" looked goofier than Sam's.

"Cas," Dean said in a low and displeased tone. "What the hell are you doing?"

Cas blinked, eyes wide and far too eager. "Um." He leaned in. "I still have that badge you gave me."

"Yeah, uh, what the hell are you doing?" he repeated with a growl.

Cas's ecstatic demeanor crumbled instantly. He quirked a confused brow at Dean. "The murders were all over the news. I- I thought I might be of help."

Dean just stared at him. Seriously? After Cas  _didn't_  want to get involved with the Rit Zien in Rexford?

"Yeah, but, Cas," Sam spoke up, lowering his voice to a whisper. "You know that this is an angel situation, right? I mean, you left that night because angels were on your ass."

Dean's pulse jumped. "Yeah," he interjected quickly. "And you were living the life, you know? Early retirement, working your way up the Gas-N-Sip ladder."

Cas just looked back at him as though not understanding. "If angels are slaughtering one another, I have to do what I can to help."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Cas continued.

"It's a risk we should be willing to take, don't you think?" he added, raising his brows meaningfully.

Dammit, Dean didn't have a counter to that. But this was really not good. Zeke had made it perfectly clear that Cas couldn't be around them at all. And now that Dean had just found out the angel was sometimes listening in on their conversations…he could already know that Cas was here, and he was pissed enough that they were on the case to begin with. How the heck was Dean going to salvage this?

Sam shrugged in agreement and a hint of appreciation.

Cas grinned. "Hey, Cas is back in town."

Dean twitched. "Seriously, did you- did he just say that?"

Sam huffed out a small laugh, clearly digging this little pow-wow reunion.

Cas lifted a file he'd been holding to look at some pictures. "These angels, uh, they were butchered," he said, and passed them to Sam. "Much more violence than was required."

Dean looked over his brother's arm to see the photos of before the bodies had been removed.

Sam's brows rose incredulously, and he swept his gaze around the room. "Definitely took more than one or two killers to pull this off."

"Hit squad? Bartholomew's people?" Dean postulated.

Sam shrugged. "Well, Bartholomew has a faction we know about, but this could be somebody else entirely we don't know."

Awesome. Just what they needed.

"Well," Cas said, reaching up to pat both of them on the shoulder at the same time. "Whoever it is, we'll find them."

And with that, he strode between them to head off, looking like, well, an FBI agent on a mission.

"'We'll' find them," Dean repeated. "That's great." Just great.

And just to add another nail to the coffin, Sam's eyes suddenly flashed blue and his posture straightened abruptly. Ezekiel turned a furious look on Dean.

His throat bobbed, because this time he didn't have anything to say. Both Sam and Cas were determined to work this case, but they couldn't work it together. Zeke would now be listening in on everything probably, and that grated Dean the wrong way, too.

Jaw ticking, he turned and walked away. Maybe the sooner they solved this case, the sooner they could go their separate ways again. At least until Sam was fully recovered.

Except there was nothing to be found at the roadhouse. They knew angels were involved, that the killings had been brutal, but other than that, it looked like they'd need to stick around and do some more digging. Dean tried to keep Sam and Cas away from each other, but his brother was just too damn enthusiastic about seeing Cas again that it was difficult, and Dean spent more time on edge and running interference that he wasn't doing much investigating himself.

They finally called it a night and headed to a bar in town for some drinks and food. Cas was actually eager to have a beer, and Dean couldn't believe his luck that the angel who used to have a stick up his ass was finally loosening up, and he couldn't fully appreciate it because he was still so tense about the whole situation.

Cas's jovial attitude was not helping, either.

"It is so good being together again," Cas said after knocking back a swig. "You know, this is my first beer as a human."

Sam huffed out a laugh as he watched the ex-angel indulging himself.

Cas paused. "I hope it's okay," he said, giving them a wide-eyed, tentative look. "Me joining you."

Sam quirked a puzzled brow at him. "Why wouldn't it be okay?"

Shit, not again.

"You know, Cas," Dean put in. "Are you sure you're ready to jump back into all this? I mean, it seemed to me like you'd actually found some peace."

Sort of. But Dean couldn't afford to let himself dig too deeply there. As much as it sucked, at least when Cas was laying low, working at the Gas-N-Sip, Dean didn't have to worry about him.

Cas just canted his head toward him meaningfully. "Hey, you once told me that you don't choose what you do. It chooses you."

Dean processed that for a moment. "Huh?"

Cas gave him a nod and wink. "I'm a part of this."

Cas clinked his bottle against Dean's, and Dean just hung his head. He could not believe this was happening.

"Like it or not," Cas added, and took another drag.

Or not was right. Or, shit, under any other circumstance, Dean would be thrilled. But not now, not with Zeke lurking just under the surface across from him.

Sam shrugged, accepting. "Alright, well, then, in that case, we have to figure out, uh, who are we up against, what do they want, and how do we stop them."

"Well, Bartholomew wants to reverse Metatron's spell," Cas replied. "Presumably to retake Heaven once his following is large enough." He paused, then added, "That's according to April."

Dean frowned in thought before he placed the name. "The reaper you banged."

Cas just stared at him. "Yeah. And you stabbed."

"Yeah." Shit, this was another avenue of conversation that needed to be avoided at all costs, because Cas had died and Zeke had brought him back, only Dean told them it was April who'd done it… He now intimately knew the meaning behind 'oh, what a tangled web we weave.'

Sam was smiling at them, probably remembering the night afterward when they'd gotten back to the bunker…but that was another memory Dean really didn't want to dwell on.

"Alright," Sam said. "I'm gonna get us another round."

"Nah, I'll get it," Cas replied, hopping off his barstool as he drained the last of his bottle. He'd only taken a step before pivoting around to place it back on the table. "You know, I've never done this before," he said with a grin, and then headed for the bar.

Dean sighed. "One beer, he's hammered."

Sam was shaking his head as he kept an eye on Cas, until his eyes flared with that eerie azure light, and his posture went rigid. Ezekiel glared Cas's direction for a moment before turning that irate gaze on Dean.

"Oh boy," he uttered.

"Well?" Zeke demanded, voice tight with fury and nostrils flaring. "What are you going to do about this?"

Dean flicked a glance at the counter where Cas was waiting for their drinks. "About Cas?"

"He is a beacon, Dean," Ezekiel snapped. "Pulling every angel for miles down on our heads."

Dean shook his head. Of all the angels he might have gotten to help Sam, it had to be the drama queen. "Alright, you know what, Zeke? Level with me—what is it that you're so afraid of?"

Zeke hesitated for a split second. "I told you," he said more softly. "When I chose to answer your prayers and heal Sam, I chose sides. That means I'm not in good standing with certain angels."

"Okay, well, you know what? Cas isn't in good standing with  _any_  angel, all right?" he retorted. "But here he is, ass on the line, fighting the fight. So tell me, what makes you so special?"

The fury returned to Ezekiel's gaze, yet before they could continue, Cas returned.

"Here we go. Three brew-skies," he enunciated. One more and he was likely to be completely smashed.

"I'm going to get something out of the car," Zeke said abruptly and stiffly, standing up and beating a speedy retreat.

Dean took a sip of his beer, trying to wash the bad taste out of his mouth.

Cas stared at the table for several long moments before clearing his throat. "I, um, I noticed you look…kind of uncomfortable whenever Sam mentions my leaving." He lifted a questioning gaze to Dean, but Dean didn't know what to say to that.

Cas squinted in confusion and suspicion. "Doesn't he know that you told me to leave?"

Dammit, he did not want to have this conversation.

Cas glanced toward the exit, and Dean was afraid he might go after Sam, so he blurted, "Here's the deal." He hesitated, rapidly trying to form an explanation that would take care of everything. "When Sam was doing the trials to seal up Hell, it messed him up, okay? The third one nearly killed him."

Cas nodded along, brows pinching in obvious concern.

"If I'd let him finish, it would have. He's still messed up. Bad."

Cas frowned in thought. "But you said the angel, Ezekiel, helped heal him."

Dean shook his head and dropped his gaze. Yeah, that was supposed to have been the arrangement. Still was. Which meant…which meant Dean was gonna have to do the absolute last thing he wanted. Again.

"Look, I got to do anything I can to get him back." His throat tightened. "Now, if that means that we keep our distance from you for a little while, then…then I don't have a choice."

Cas's expression fell as understanding seeped in.

"I don't feel good about it," Dean insisted. "But I don't have a choice. It's great to have your help, Cas." He swallowed. "Okay, but we just can't work together."

Cas looked frozen for a second, the same way he had in the bunker that awful night. Processing the words came more quickly this time, and he looked down at the beers on the table.

Dean couldn't stand it. He stood up and dug some twenties out of his pocket, which he dropped on the table to cover the beers. And then without another word, he turned and headed out. He didn't think he could hate himself any more than he already did, but apparently he was wrong.

The shock of cold night air when he stepped outside stung his eyes, and he gave himself a small shake. At least Zeke would be happy now.

Dean scanned the lot, but didn't see his gigantic, angel-possessed brother near the Impala, so he headed around back in search of him. Sure enough, there was a large figure in the alley behind the bar's rear exit, towering over a much smaller person. Dean slowed and kept to the shadows along the wall. Even from this distance, he could recognize Zeke's stiff-as-a-board posture, and wondered who the heck the angel would be talking to.

"What is it you want of me, Metatron?"

Dean pulled up short. What the hell?  _Metatron_?

There was an exasperated sigh, followed by the smarmy voice of someone Dean had sworn to stab in the throat the next time he saw him.

"Just to be your friend. You and I go back a long way. I was actually the one who freed you."

"You?" Zeke said in surprise.

"I was the one who caused all the angels to fall," Metatron proclaimed proudly. "Including the imprisoned ones. You're welcome."

Dean's brows shot upward. Whoa, whoa, whoa, 'imprisoned' angels? Cas had said Ezekiel was a good guy…

"No angels are in Heaven? None at all?" Zeke gasped, sounding horror-stricken.

"No," Metatron replied. "And you know, at first, I thought I would love it. But it's a big place. My solitude is getting tedious."

Dean's fingers itched to grab his angel blade and storm out of hiding to kill the bastard, but he didn't. He kept absolutely still and held his breath, because things were not adding up here in a very bad way.

"And so?" Ezekiel asked.

"And so…" Metatron started conspiratorially. "Plan B. Rebuild Heaven as the place God envisioned it, only with a handpicked few. No more anemic functionaries like Bartholomew. And no more stupid angels." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "Maybe some funny ones." He took an earnest step closer to Ezekiel. "You  _were_  His  _most trusted_ , Gadreel. You want to take back your reputation? You want to reclaim the Heaven that was? We could do this together."

There was a long moment of silence where Dean felt as though all the oxygen had been punched from his lungs. Who the hell was Gadreel?

"I will consider your offer," Zeke—or not Zeke—finally said.

Dean's heart dropped into his stomach. Oh god, what the hell had he gotten them into? Ezekiel wasn't who he said he was? Was he even healing Sam, then?

Regardless, Dean knew one thing for certain—he had to find a way to evict this imposter,  _now_.

* * *

Castiel shuffled into his motel room, heart heavy and confused by what happened at the bar. He thought he'd been pulling his weight with the case, actually contributing something and being of help. He thought if he could prove to the Winchesters that he could be useful, he might start to redeem himself to them.

But apparently that was not going to happen. Dean said they had to avoid Castiel because of Sam and the Trials, but that just didn't make sense. It sounded more like Dean was just trying to make excuses. And Sam didn't know that Dean had told Castiel to leave? Then why had Sam seemed so stiff when he'd abruptly left the table, when just before that he'd seemed happy to have Castiel around?

It was all so confusing.

And it didn't matter. For whatever reason, Castiel could not work with them. Could no longer be their friend. Perhaps he was a liability now as a human. He'd thought they would be good teachers, able to help him navigate this new existence, but that was a burden they shouldn't need to bear, especially when they had enough problems trying to clean up Castiel's mess with the angels falling. That was obviously the last straw in a long line of horrible mistakes that Dean just couldn't forgive.

But that didn't mean Castiel was going to give up. Angels were killing each other, and he had to do something. They were his family, after all.

A family that hated him.

Castiel sighed despondently. Both his families hated him.

But if he couldn't redeem himself with the Winchesters, maybe he could try with his angelic siblings.

Desperate, Castiel went to the foot of the bed and got down on his knees. He had no other idea of what to try. And while it was entirely possible that an unfriendly party might hear this message, he figured they would be too busy with their own affairs to pay attention to one human's voice out of a cacophony of them.

"Okay," he breathed, smoothing down his suit and setting his arms on the mattress. "I'm…unfamiliar with this end of the process." He bowed his head and folded his hands. "Of course…no one may be listening. Um, but I- I do need assistance."

He took a deep breath. "I have questions, and there seem to be no answers. I…I wouldn't presume to ask for help if I weren't desperate, but I need help."

He lowered his forehead to the mattress in a posture of contrition. "I'm lost," Castiel admitted. "I need your guidance."

For a brief moment, he had almost directed his prayer to his father, but he knew better than that. God was long gone, and obviously didn't care about his children, who had been cast down to Earth in a violent rage.

Castiel rolled his shoulder and re-centered himself, aiming his thoughts toward angels, not Heaven. "Please hear my prayer."

He paused, opening his eyes to look around. Nothing had changed. Of course, it wasn't as though he could expect an angel to fly into his room. If anyone did choose to answer his prayer, it would probably take them a while to arrive. Castiel just wished he could have some kind of confirmation that his prayer had been received at all.

He sighed. "I don't know how humans do it."

He could try again later. For now, he stood up and walked over to the TV, hoping to fill the silence in the room and in his head with mindless noise. Yet before he could get the device to turn on, the door was suddenly kicked in. Two thugs bearing angel blades burst inside.

"Well, well, well, look who we have here," one of them said, baring his teeth in a predatory grin.

Castiel could only stare in horror. How? He was warded, and- and he didn't think any of the militants would pay attention to a measly mortal's prayers.

"Malachi was right," the same burly guy spoke again. "Watch for the Winchesters to come investigate the angel killings, and Castiel wouldn't be far behind."

Castiel's heart nearly stopped. Malachi? The Anarchist?

The angel roved his gaze up and down him. "Didn't expect to find you alone, but that just makes things easier."

The two angels surged forward and seized him, and Castiel knew he couldn't hope to fight back, mortal now and no match for angelic strength. As he was dragged bodily outside to a van, he realized Dean was right to send him away. He could have endangered the Winchesters had he still been in their company. He should have stayed away altogether.

And now he would have to face the consequences of his multitude of sins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to blame my sick-adled brain Friday for not mentioning my betas for this fic in the first chapter. Thank you to 29Pieces and Miyth!

Castiel was roughly manhandled down a dark corridor by his captors. Whiplashes and resultant screams reverberated from the depths of this hellhole on Earth, but it wasn't demons in residence here. It was angels.

He was hauled into a room at the end of the passage, a dark, dank chamber with chains suspended from hooks in the support pillars. There was another angel there already, one with stringy long hair and a bushy beard.

"Malachi," one of the guards said, and Castiel stiffened. He no longer had the ability to recognize his siblings by sight, but the quiet deadliness in this one's eyes stirred a flicker of memory.

The Anarchist roved a shrewd gaze up and down him. "Hello, Castiel."

Malachi stepped to the side, and his thugs suddenly pushed Castiel forward, spinning him around and slamming his back against the column. His arms were yanked up and shackles snapped around his wrists. Castiel gave them a brief, experimental tug, before sagging in defeat, and then manacles were latched around his ankles as well, pinning him to the pillar.

The guards retreated, and Malachi stepped forward again. "So, Castiel, the one who cast us from Heaven."

He bristled. "Metatron did that, not me."

"But you helped him."

"No, I- I thought he was trying to save Heaven. I had no idea he planned to make the angels fall."

Malachi scoffed, and folded his arms behind his back as he began to casually pace. "You were seen, Castiel. Helping Metatron gather ingredients for a spell. Helping him slip back into Heaven. So…" Malachi paused to face him. "How can the spell be reversed?"

Castiel shook his head. "I don't know. Look at me. I'm human. Metatron stole my grace as the final ingredient. I was an unwitting accomplice."

"Ohhh. A dupe." Malachi smirked, and moved away to stand over a tray holding an angel blade and an array of surgical instruments. "The great Castiel. Valued and trusted Castiel. Top-of-the-Christmas-tree Castiel!" Malachi turned back toward him. "No more than a dupe."

Castiel felt every utterance of his name like a barb. Yes, he'd been stupid. Yes, he'd made a mistake.

But not just with Metatron. He'd made so many mistakes in the past. The Leviathan. Purgatory. The war with Raphael. Every time he tried to help his brothers and sisters, he made things worse.

A distant scream punctuated the silence, followed by a shimmer of blue light from under a door. Malachi didn't even bat an eye. Castiel's heart clenched.

"Angels butchering angels," he murmured. "Is this what we've become?"

"Just following your example, Castiel," Malachi replied glibly, coming close enough his breath puffed in Castiel's face. "How many did you kill in Heaven? How many in the Fall?"

Castiel squinted. The Fall?

Malachi's eyes widened for a second before his expression narrowed. "Oh, you didn't know? A host of angels died when they fell."

Castiel's stomach dropped out from under him. No.  _No_ … He remembered the fireballs burning up in the atmosphere as they plummeted to Earth. Hundreds upon hundreds. Castiel was responsible yet again for so much destruction…

"Azrael, Sophia, Ezekiel," Malachi went on. "'Died' doesn't even describe it."

Castiel blinked. Wait, Ezekiel? How could that—

"Devastation. Wings shredded. Unspeakable agony at your hands."

A lump constricted Castiel's throat. No, he hadn't wanted this; he  _never_  wanted this.

Malachi took a step back and moved toward the tray of torture implements again. "So I think now it should be your turn, Castiel." He picked up the angel blade. "I intend to find a way to reverse Metatron's spell and take back Heaven. And since your grace was the final ingredient, you must be the key to undoing it."

Malachi turned, gaze dark with malevolence. Castiel tensed as the angel stalked closer, coming right up and using his other hand to rip Castiel's shirt open, exposing his chest. Malachi set the tip of the blade to Castiel's torso.

"Let's start with some sigil work," he mused, and began dragging the tip down.

Fiery pain followed as celestial steel sundered flesh, and Castiel couldn't hold back a cry as Malachi carved a rune straight into his skin. Hot blood streamed down his stomach.

Malachi paused to admire his work, then looked up at Castiel's face. "Oh, and feel free to provide some input on which sigils to use," he remarked mildly. "It could take a while, experimenting with different combinations. But I think after a while you'll be feeling rather cooperative."

He inserted the blade under Castiel's collarbone and sliced again, down and up and arcing in a whorl.

Castiel threw his head back and screamed.

* * *

Sam didn't go to sleep until super late last night, when Dean finally declared he was hitting the sack. Dean didn't know if it was just a coincidence, the rhythm of the two of them working a case together, or if Zeke-not-Zeke was manipulating things so he could keep an eye on Dean.

Whatever it was, Dean didn't get a chance to get away until the next morning when Sam was in the shower and he'd hollered through the bathroom door that he was going out for a breakfast run.

Dean waited until he'd driven all the way to a local donut shop before parking in the lot and pulling out his phone to call Kevin. The line rang several times, in which Dean's nerves were getting more and more frayed, before it finally clicked.

"Mmph?" was the groggy response.

"I need a spell. ASAP."

There was a sigh mixed with a groan. "Everyone always needs a spell, and it's always ASAP," Kevin muttered tiredly.

"Alright, listen to me," Dean said urgently. "An angel can't be expelled by another human, okay, only by the host, right? But, what if there was a way to power down the angel, so that it wasn't in charge for a few seconds?"

Dean had to reach Sam, had to let him know what was going on. And boy was that not gonna be a fun conversation.

"What?" Kevin said, sounding confused.

"For instance," Dean rambled on. "If- if hypothetically, I wanted to speak with the vessel but not have the squatter listen in."

There was a pause, and then a muddled, "Why?"

"Why?" Dean repeated. "Kevin, we've got tons of possessed humans out there. You with me? And when the angels kill each other off, the humans are taking it in the teeth. So what if I wanted to clue the human in so that he, or she, could spit the angel out? That would be a good thing, right?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"Okay," Dean growled. "So hit the Tablet. Let's go!"

"Now?" Kevin asked, still sounding half asleep.

"Yesterday, Cinderella!" Dean barked, and hung up.

Dropping his phone in his lap, Dean leaned forward to put his head in his hands. He could not believe how messed up things had gotten. But he had a plan. Or, Kevin was working on a plan. Dean could still fix this. He could get his brother out of this horrible mess he had made.

When he arrived back at the motel, he found Sam sitting at the small table, clacking away on his laptop.

Sam looked up. "Any word from Cas?"

"Nothing yet," he replied shortly. Honestly, he had bigger things to worry about, like the sleeper agent probably listening in on them right now.

"And we're not…worried about him, that he just took off like that again?" Sam said pointedly. "I mean, it's not like he does this kind of stuff alone."

Dean dropped the box of donuts on the table and threw his hands up. "It's the way he wanted it, honestly."

Sam just gazed back at him like he was calling bullshit.

"Hey, look, man," Dean went on. "He's been all over the map since he got his wings clipped." Working at a Gas-N-Sip and then playing FBI agent? And okay, some of that was Dean's fault, and he'd fix it, just as soon as he fixed the other pressing issue sitting in front of him.

"What do you got?" he asked, changing the subject. Maybe if they stopped talking about Cas, this Gadreel dude wouldn't feel the need to eavesdrop so closely. Dean came around to look at the laptop. "Obituaries. That one of the bikers?"

Sam shook his head, but turned the screen slightly toward him. "Yeah. His name was Red Dawg."

Dean snorted. "Of course it was."

"It's not what you think," Sam told him. "Look, he's a family guy. Big in the PTA, he played Santa at Christmas parties."

Dean quirked a confused brow. "So, what? Just one day, he up and joined a biker gang?"

"No, he did that years ago." Sam held up a finger for Dean to wait. "Get this. This is weird." He pulled up a photo of said biker gang. "Look. These are all the victims, right? They were all  _baptized_  together."

"Baptized?" Dean repeated dubiously.

"Yeah. They were a 'born-again' biker gang."

Dean's mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. "Well, that is not something you hear everyday." Though it did explain how angels and bikers somehow got tangled up in each other.

"No, it's not," Sam agreed.

Dean's gaze caught something in the photo, and he sat up straighter. "Wait, make that bigger," he said, pointing to the leather vest of one of the guys.

Sam clicked on that section and enlarged it, giving them a closer view of a logo on the jacket.

"'Boyle's Boys'?" Dean read incredulously. "Boyle, as in Reverend Buddy Boyle?"

Sam leaned forward earnestly and started rapidly typing. "Listen to this. Red Dawg's widow said he was 'always religious,' but a week before he died, he came home from a prayer meeting and was 'a changed man, filled with divine glory.'"

"So, Boyle's at it again," Dean said in disgust. "Selling folks on being meatsuits for angels."

"Just, what? Talking to smaller groups now?" Sam said.

Dean ran a hand down his face. "I don't know. Maybe, uh, softening up thousands at a time, he wasn't able to control what angels got let in. This way, Bartholomew's followers can jump in just as soon as Boyle does his thing."

Sam's brow furrowed in thought. "So, Red Dawg and his guys were Bartholomew people?"

"Yeah, and they got slaughtered. Which means that this new group is even worse."

Just awesome.

For a moment, Dean wished he could trust Zeke, could ask the angel to stop in and give his opinion. He knew more about the angel factions than they did. But 'Zeke' wasn't Ezekiel, and had lied to Dean, and he was doing his best to keep it together, knowing that a potential enemy was in their midst and had Sam's life in his hands.

And then for another moment, Dean wished he hadn't sent Cas away. Cas knew just as much about the angels, could probably even tell him who the hell this Gadreel was. Maybe that was the real reason Gadreel didn't want Cas around. And Dean had gone along with it. Kicked his best friend to the curb over the word of an angel who wasn't trustworthy after all.

"Haven't I always said that angels are dicks?" Dean muttered.

* * *

That statement was proven no less true an hour later when they caught wind of another angel attack in Utah. With nothing else to do while Dean waited for Kevin to come through with a spell, he decided he and Sam might as well drive out there and look into it.

Ten hours later, they were at the crime scene: a little outdoor meeting area in a woodland grove. Dean and Sam had split up to talk to the various officials, and then regrouped back at the Impala at the edge of the scene.

"So this was a college Bible study group," Sam reported. He sighed. "They were a bunch of kids."

"Yeah," Dean murmured. "There was a guest speaker, too. Some top-shelf church lady. And get this—her insides were  _not_  scorched out and eyes weren't missing."

Sam furrowed his brow. "So, she was an angel, too?"

"Sounds like. Uh, and she sang soprano for the, uh…" He tried to remember the name. "Melody Ministry Glee Club?"

Sam just gave him a blank look. "Okay?"

"The club goes to its gigs on a bus, so I checked with the Wyoming cops, and they said that a witness saw the same bus leaving the biker bar not long before the bodies were found."

Sam's brows rose as he made the connection. "So, church-lady angel was at both killings?"

Dean nodded. "I'm guessing that she and whoever she's running with killed Bartholomew's bikers at the bar and then Bart's boys hit her back."

"When she was recruiting those students to be vessels." Sam shook his head. "This is getting out of hand."

Dean didn't disagree. He just didn't know what the hell they were supposed to do about it.

Sam ran a hand down his hair. "Maybe we should try to find Cas."

Dean stiffened. "What?"

"I'm sure he could help us here. He knows a lot of the players, and could probably help us figure out who this other faction leader is."

Dean's throat tightened as his brother laid out Dean's own thoughts from earlier. But that wasn't an option. Not yet.

"I'm sure if Cas finds anything, he'll call to let us know," Dean said, and turned to climb into the car, effectively closing the door on that avenue of conversation.

Sam huffed, but slid into the passenger seat, and they drove to a local motel where they could wait for the next angel murders to take place. Except right after checking in and changing out of their FBI threads, Sam slipped out without a word and didn't come back.

Dean's gut cramped. Maybe his brother had gone for a walk. Or maybe Gadreel was taking liberties, maybe going to meet up with Metatron. That thought made Dean even more antsy, but if he tried to tail Sam, that could set off warning bells for both parties involved.

He was on the verge of going crazy with worry when his phone rang, the screen lighting up with Kevin's name. Dean snatched it up.

"Tell me you have something."

"You know, a 'hello' might be nice every once in a while," Kevin muttered.

"People are dying out here," Dean growled. "Tell me you have something."

"Alright, alright. Yeah, I got something. Here, I'm texting you a picture."

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear as a notification for a new message popped up. He tapped the icon and pulled up some sigil work he'd never seen before. Kevin's voice started talking again, so Dean hit the speaker button so he could hear and study the photo.

"The sigils are supposed to briefly hobble the possessing angel." He paused. "If the info's correct."

Dean stiffened. "Wait, what?"

Kevin sighed. "I only had time to get a little from the Tablet. The rest came from an old Men of Letters book. As soon as your blood touches the ignition sigil, the spell kicks in."

Dean took a centering breath. Okay. Okay, he could work with this.

"Thanks, man. I owe you one."

"Or twelve," Kevin muttered just as Dean disconnected the call.

Checking outside to make sure Sam wasn't back yet, Dean quickly grabbed a can of spray paint from the trunk of the Impala and proceeded to paint the sigils on the back of the motel room door. He triple checked the markings to make sure everything was right, heart starting to hammer inside his chest. Time to get Sam back, completely.

But he was also worried that Zeke—Gadreel—hadn't healed his brother as much as he'd promised to. Or that he might hurt Sam if he realized the jig was up.

That was a risk Dean was going to have to take, though.

He caught sight of Sam striding across the parking lot then, and moved into position. With one hand on the doorknob, Dean opened the door just as Sam was about to reach for it.

"Hey, where you been?" Dean asked.

Sam quirked a startled look at him. "For a walk. Wanted to clear my head."

Right.

"Can we talk?"

Sam furrowed his brow. "Yeah, sure."

Dean stepped back so Sam could come inside, and then closed the door, making sure to bodily block any view of the sigil as he whipped out a knife and slit his palm. He slapped the sigil, igniting a flash of light.

Sam spun around, eyes wide and alarmed as he took in the smoldering rune on the door. "What's going on? What are you doing?" He raised his hands warily as Dean took a step toward him.

Dean tucked the knife away. "I got to tell you some stuff fast. It's gonna piss you off."

Sam was still staring at him warily. "Okay…"

Dean swallowed. "Those Trials really messed you up."

Sam's worried expression morphed into irritation. "Yes, I know that, Dea—"

"No, you don't," Dean cut him off. He didn't know how much time he had, and he needed to get this all out so Sam would understand just how serious things were. "I mean messed you up like almost dead. No more birthdays, dust to dust. Well, that messed me up, so I made a move, okay, a tough move about you without talking it over because you were in a coma."

Sam gaped at him in disbelief. "Wait, what? When?"

"You were in the hospital, okay," Dean said, voice cracking as that fear and terror tried to grip his heart again. "And they said you were gonna die."

Sam's eyes widened. "What did you do?" he demanded.

Dean faltered for a moment. God, how was he supposed to say this? He'd been hoping he'd never have to, that Zeke would heal his brother and then leave, and Sam would never have to know…

Dean steeled himself. "I let an angel in."

Sam frowned. "In what?"

"In you," he confessed.

Disbelief, anger, and confusion all flashed through Sam's eyes.

"He said he could heal you and he is," Dean went on, pleading for his brother to understand why he did what he had to.

"He's still in me?" Sam blurted, fear joining the myriad of complicated emotions on his face.

Dean nodded.

Sam shook his head, a half delirious smile breaking the lines of tension. "Wait. That's impossible, Dean. That couldn't happen. I never invited him in."

"I tricked you into saying yes," Dean insisted. "It seemed like the only way."

Sam reeled back, mouth open in shock. He turned around and took a few steps toward the back wall. "So…" he said shakily. "Again." He turned back angrily. "You thought I couldn't handle something, so you took over!"

"No, I did what I had to do!" Dean shouted back. "You would've never agreed to it, and you would've died!"

Why couldn't Sam see this? Why couldn't he see that this was the only way to save him?

Sam threw his arms out. "Well, maybe I would've liked the choice, at least!"

"We can do this later," Dean snapped. "You can kick my ass all you want. Right now we got bigger problems." And they were running out of time.

Sam gaped at him. "Bigger?" he spat in accusation.

"The angel lied to me," Dean said urgently. "Okay? He- he's not who he said he was. He said his name was Ezekiel. Cool guy, according to Cas, but it's not Ezekiel."

"Then who is he?" Sam sputtered.

"Some dude named Gadreel. And he's teaming up with Metatron. Look, this guy can end you in a heartbeat if he wants to, so you have got to dump him."

Sam just stood there, shoulders heaving and harsh breaths punching from his chest.

"Are you hearing what I'm saying?" Dean pressed frantically. "I think you're well enough now, but you got to expel him!"

Sam staggered back a step and squeezed his eyes shut. Dean watched desperately as Sam gritted his teeth and craned his neck as though in intense concentration.

_Please, please, please_ …

A moment later, Sam threw his head back and an explosion of blue light erupted from his mouth. Dean's legs nearly turned to jelly in sheer relief as the stream of grace slurped out the window and into the sky, but it was Sam whose knees hit the floor first.

"Sammy?" Dean's heart skipped a beat and he lunged forward to catch his brother.

Sam was gasping in ragged breaths, but as soon as Dean gripped his arms, he was shoving him away. "Get the hell away from me."

Dean cringed at the venom in Sam's tone, but his little brother was right to be furious. "Are you okay? How do you feel? Sick? Dizzy?" He instinctively reached out again, but Sam slapped his hand down and scrabbled to his feet.

Okay, okay, he was able to remain upright, so that was definite improvement. Maybe Gadreel hadn't lied about healing Sam. But he'd also said he hadn't finished yet.

"Look, I know you're pissed," Dean rattled off, "but we should make sure you're not gonna have a relapse."

Sam's face twisted in disgust. "Why? It's not like you're gonna get that… _thing_ , back inside me," he snapped.

Dean's throat constricted with a spiky lump. "I'm sorry, okay? But I had no other option."

"You could have let me go!"

"That's never an option," Dean growled.

Shaking his head, Sam took a stumbling step past him toward the door.

"Sam…"

Sam spun with a right hook so fast, Dean didn't see it coming. He felt the impact in his cheek bone that snapped his head to the side and sent him crashing to the floor. Spots darted across his vision, and before he could clear them, he heard and felt the door slam shut.

Dean dropped his head back against the carpet and squeezed his eyes shut in anguish and regret.

But Sam was alive and well.

He'd done the right thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, warnings for torture? I mean, I don't think I ever do anything worse than the show... But yeah, some torture ahead.

Castiel came to with a sharp jolt as healing energy surged through him. He was so cold that it burned in his veins like fire, searing away all the marks that Malachi had carved into him this time. The repeated healings may have restored his flesh, but his mind was fuzzy from the endless torture. How long had he been here now? There was no sense of the passage of time in this dark, dank chamber, only the repetitious sequence of pain and torment. Malachi never gave him a respite between approaches.

Castiel blinked blearily at the floor, barely able to lift his head anymore, and stared with a strange sort of detachment at the copious amounts of blood pooling across the concrete. He knew it had all come from his own body, had watched it pour forth from a myriad of barbaric blows that Malachi had ensured Castiel would remain conscious through. No mortal could survive that much blood loss, yet he had not been allowed to die. Every time he came close to his frail human heart giving out, Malachi would step in and bring him back.

"Well, that combination of sigils didn't work," the sadistic angel remarked as he set the blade on the tray with the other bloodied instruments. Malachi began to pace, one hand stroking his beard ruminatively. "Maybe it's time to get more creative."

Castiel's heart stuttered. Malachi had already gotten 'creative' with some of his methods, taking his time so as to savor the moments, too. Castiel tasted bile in the back of his throat with the memory of it, things humans only ever experienced in the Pit while on a rack, where relief in death never came. It wouldn't come here, either.

"Please," he rasped, ashamed to beg, though it was not the first time such pleas had escaped his lips.

Malachi arched an expectant brow at him. "Have anything to add, Castiel? A spell, perhaps? Metatron's weaknesses?"

He hung his head in abject despair. "No. I told you…"

The angel sighed loudly. "You'd suffer, even die, for your beliefs. I get it."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," Castiel gritted out, hating that if he  _did_  have the answers Malachi wanted, he would have gladly given them up by now.

Malachi's eyes took on a flinty fury. "I tire of this, Castiel."

He snatched up the angel blade again, and Castiel squeezed his eyes shut as he braced for the next cut.

"And as much as I enjoy hearing you scream, it's also becoming a bit of a distraction."

Castiel opened his eyes in confusion just as Malachi stormed forward and placed the edge of the blade under Castiel's ear. His heart lurched.  _No!_

With one swift movement, Malachi slit his throat. Hot blood spilled forth down his neck as fiery pain seared through him. Castiel gasped, and suddenly flashed back to Metatron cutting out his grace. But he had no grace to lose this time, only life blood and bubbles of oxygen.

Malachi bored his gaze into Castiel for a long moment as he hung in the chains, choking, before the angel set two fingers to Castiel's neck and partially healed the wound. Blood trickled out now instead of poured, and Castiel's lungs were able to receive air, but each breath hiccoughed in agony.

"That's better," Malachi grinned. He half turned to snatch up a set of keys and then started unlocking the shackles around Castiel's ankles, then the ones holding his arms up.

Once one hand was free, Castiel shot it up to clutch at his throat, panic threatening to make him hyperventilate. He would have collapsed, too, if not for Malachi fisting one hand in his tattered shirt to hold him up. The angel grabbed a metal spike off the tray next, and then shoved Castiel over to the wall. Before Castiel could register what was happening, Malachi had lifted his arm and was driving the spike through his wrist.

Castiel's mouth opened in a gurgling scream, pain igniting tenfold in his throat. Malachi stepped back to retrieve another spike, and then strode back, yanked Castiel's other hand away from his neck, and drove the metal point through that wrist as well, right between the radius and ulna.

He stepped back with a pleased smirk. "Crucifixion looks good on you, Castiel."

The pain almost made him black out, and Castiel once again silently called out to his father to just let him die.

"Now, I don't have an actual wooden cross," Malachi mused out loud. "But I think the mirrored offering should be sufficient. Christ's death tore the veil; perhaps yours in this manner will tear open the gates." He hummed thoughtfully. "And if not, we'll just have to try something else."

A scream suddenly rent the air outside, followed by shouts and the clang of steel. Malachi whirled as another angel came rushing into the room.

"Bartholomew's agents are raiding the base!"

Malachi's nostrils flared, and he charged out into the corridor with the angel. Castiel's heart pounded against his rib cage. This was the only chance he was going to get. Whether Bartholomew's angels killed all of Malachi's or the other way around, Castiel would still be the spoils of war, and would continue to be tortured for his crimes.

Though breathing hurt and he could only take in shallow breaths, he tried to suck in enough oxygen to muster his strength, and ripped his right arm away from the wall. The explosion of pain almost made him pass out, but he couldn't let himself, not yet. He fumbled at the other spike, fingers slick with blood and slipping around it. He could barely form a grip, but desperation and adrenaline somehow made it happen, and he managed to free himself from the other spike.

He instantly crashed to the floor, nausea and dizziness overwhelming him. The echoed sounds of fighting drifted down the dark passage. Were they getting nearer? It was too difficult to tell.

Gritting his teeth against the agony, Castiel dragged himself a few inches across the floor to a clear patch of concrete, and started to brush his bleeding wrist in deliberate whorls and lines in order to paint out an angel banishing sigil. And then he waited, eyelids drooping and cold seeping into his bones with malignant intent. He had to hold on just a little longer. Escape from this hellhole wasn't an option, only escape from it all.

Thundering footsteps headed his way, and by then Castiel couldn't lift his head enough to see which faction they belonged to as several pairs of boots burst into the room. He slammed his limp hand down on the sigil, and the room erupted in a flare of blinding light and discordant screams.

And then it was silent and dark again. There weren't even sounds of fighting from upstairs. Castiel could only hope that the sigil had managed to catch every angel still left in the building. He needed time to be dead long enough that it would be too difficult for them to bring him back when they returned…

Castiel fully collapsed on the cold concrete now as blessed darkness wrapped its arms around him.

* * *

Sam didn't know how far he'd walked from the motel, his only thought to get as far away as possible. But his lungs had started to burn and a chill was creeping past his layers, so he finally turned and stumbled into a bar. It was too early for the place to be full, and Sam found a quiet, dark corner to sink into.

Of course, the moment he sat down and the waitress came over, he suddenly balked at the idea of drinking any alcohol. After finding out that he hadn't been in full control of himself these past few months, the idea of blunting his mind was terrifying. All those moments of him losing time now made sense. The angel had been… And Dean had been awkward and fumbling in those moments, too. So, he and the angel were chatting it up while Sam was put on hold like a damn placeholder?

His gut cramped as he took in the bar, now remembering how the last time he'd been in one, he'd lost time… Did Cas know? Was the angel Cas was running from the one that'd been inside  _him_?

Sam started as he realized the waitress was staring at him expectantly. "I'll just have some chips," he said coarsely. Not that he felt he could stomach food, either.

God, how could Dean do this to him? An  _angel_? After everything that happened with Lucifer? Forcing it down Sam's throat without a single thought as to what that would do to him? If he'd truly been dying, Dean should have let him go. Anything but this…

A hard lump constricted Sam's throat. He didn't know if he could go back to the motel and even look at his brother after this. He could steal a car, go back to the bunker. But he'd see Dean there again eventually, and they were still in the middle of a case. He ran his hands over his hair, trying to figure out what to do.

The waitress brought his food, and Sam nibbled on a few chips before giving up. Throwing some cash on the table, he stood and left.

Turned out he'd walked pretty far in the heat of his temper, but that was good; the slower trek back would give him time to clear his head, compose himself. There was no changing what happened, and there was no talking it out because Dean didn't think he'd done anything wrong. Never would. And Sam didn't know where that put them now.

He eventually made it back to the motel. His heart clenched as he reached for the door handle to let himself inside. Dean was there, holding a cold beer bottle to his face. He straightened at Sam's entrance.

"Hey."

Sam closed the door and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Hey."

"You okay?"

Sam just shook his head, because of course his brother was utterly sincere in his concern. "How do you expect me to answer that?"

Dean set the bottle down. "I'm sorry, okay? How many times do you want me to say it?"

"But you're not sorry," Sam interrupted. "Not sorry you tricked me, not sorry you let an angel possess me. You're sorry it blew up in your face and that I found out."

Dean's throat bobbed and he looked away. "I didn't know what else to do, okay? Cas wasn't answering my prayers—"

"You're blaming Cas for losing his grace?" Sam blurted.

"No! It's just…you were in a coma, okay? You didn't see what was going on, angels falling everywhere, attacking at the hospital. I was doing everything I could to keep you safe, and it wasn't enough."

"Then it wasn't enough. If it was my time, then—"

"It was not your time," Dean snapped, surging to his feet. "You stopped the Trials so you  _wouldn't_  die. But then you were going to anyway. Somebody changed the playbook, man, you know? It's like what- what- what's right is wrong and what's wrong is more wrong, and…"

"See? You knew it was wrong, and you did it anyway."

"Because you were  _dying_ , Sam."

Sam shook his head. It was a futile argument as he knew it would be. So where could they possibly go from here?

"Something's broken here, Dean," he said softly.

"I'm not saying that it's not. I…I just think maybe we need to put a couple W's on the board and we get past all this."

Sam let out a small scoff. Right. Dean's go-to fix-it. Well, it wasn't going to work this time.

"I don't think so," he said in a low voice. "No, I- I wish, but…" His own throat tightened and he tried to swallow back the welling emotions to get the words out. "We don't…see things the same way anymore—our roles in this whole thing. Back in that church, talking me out of boarding up Hell? Or- or tricking me into letting that Gadreel possess me?" Sam gave him a sad look, because he was truly mourning what they had lost with each other. "I can't trust you. Not the way I thought I could, not the way I should be able to."

And that hurt the worst in this whole messed up situation.

Dean took a step forward. "Okay, look. Whatever happened…we are family, okay?"

"You say that like it's some sort of cure-all," Sam retorted. "Like it can change the fact that everything that has ever gone wrong between us has been  _because_  we're family."

And god, it hurt to say, but it was true. Sam had ignored it for so many years, but this- this was the last straw.

Dean shot him a baffled look. "So, what? We're not family now?"

Sam was silent for a long moment. He didn't know how to fix this. He didn't know if it  _could_  be fixed. But he also didn't know if he could just walk away. His emotions were still a wreck, and Sam didn't want to make any brash decisions the way Dean always did.

"I'm saying," he said carefully, "you want to work? Let's work." Sam paused. "If you want to be brothers…"

And with that, he trailed off, leaving an unspoken ultimatum in the air. Dean just stared at him in dismay, as though something was shattering behind his eyes, even as his outward expression remained like stone.

Dean wasn't going to admit he was wrong. And should another life threatening situation pop up, he'd do it again. But they couldn't keep living their lives that way, because they always ended up causing more harm than good.

Sam's phone started ringing, disrupting the tense silence. He swallowed thickly as he answered. "Hello?"

"Agent Page?"

He straightened, donning his FBI persona. "Yes. Who is this?" The voice sounded familiar.

"Sheriff Carlson."

Oh, from the first crime scene at the roadhouse in Wyoming.

"Right, sorry. Go ahead."

"There's been another attack," the sheriff reported. "Same as the roadhouse. A slaughter."

Sam glanced at Dean. "My partner and I are in Utah investigating a similar case, but we'll send someone back out there right away." He hung up, fingering his phone for a moment. "So, what's it gonna be?"

Dean just gazed at him for a prolonged beat, expression turning numb. He finally shook his head in defeat. "We work the case."

Sam nodded. At least it was something to focus on.

But the nine-hour drive back to Caribou, Wyoming wasn't exactly gonna be pleasant.

* * *

Dean pulled up outside the latest crime scene, and had barely turned the engine off before Sam was out of the car. He shook his head. Yeah, Sam had every right to be pissed, but saying they weren't brothers anymore? Dean was still reeling from that, because it hadn't been something yelled in anger, but a quietly delivered statement, one that somehow packed more of a devastating punch than anything else Sam could have said to him.

Dean knew he had to fix this; he just didn't know how, and they'd spent the entire drive back to Wyoming in complete silence. But maybe getting back to the case would help. That was normal, after all. They'd work this out, and with time, things between them would just fall back into their natural rhythm.

Dean exited the Impala and followed Sam to the front of an old, dilapidated building. Unlike the roadhouse and bible study gathering, this wasn't exactly a place for people to meet up at.

Sam showed his badge to a uniformed officer, who directed them inside to where the sheriff was. There was blood spatter everywhere, along with charcoal wing prints. Dean frowned as he spotted silver angel blades lying next to some of the pools of blood. Whoever had struck at the first two scenes had cleaned up. Why not this place?

"Agents," Sheriff Carlson called out from where he was standing at the head of a dark corridor.

Dean and Sam made their way over.

"Sheriff," Sam greeted. "What happened here?"

"A bloody massacre is what," he replied, pallor a little pale. He ran a hand down his stubbled jaw. "I cannot believe this stuff was going on in this town."

"You mean the murders?" Dean checked.

Sheriff Carlson snorted. "Murders? Oh, this goes beyond murder." He nodded over his shoulder and started to lead the way into the corridor. There were several rooms lining the sides, and one at the end. All the doors were open and lights kept flashing from cameras as crime scene techs photographed every inch of the chambers within.

"It's a damn horror movie set," the sheriff went on, averting his gaze when they passed an open door. "Chains, barbed whips,  _saws_."

Sam frowned and paused to glance into one of the rooms. "Torture chambers?" he said dubiously.

Sheriff Carlson shook his head. "Multiple ones. We found some bodies in a few of them. But even the empty ones had blood everywhere."

Dean exchanged a look with his brother. So maybe this was a base belonging to one of the angel factions. But which one? Dean passed one of the rooms and saw wing prints seared into the concrete walls. Angels being tortured. If Dean didn't already know better, he would have said this place reeked of demons. But there was no sulfur.

He stepped into the chamber at the far back, eyes widening at the sheer amount of blood on the floor. He'd seen some gruesome stuff in his time, but this reminded him of his stint in Hell. He shook his head in disgust; angels were just as bad as demons.

"So what happened upstairs?" Sam asked, staying out in the hall.

"Don't know," Sheriff Carlson replied. "They turned on each other? A rival gang? Not that these people belonged to any known gang." He let out a frustrated sound. "Agent, what's going on here?"

"I wish we knew," Sam said regretfully. "How many bodies?"

"Fifteen dead. One survivor."

"Wait, survivor?"

Dean angled his head to listen as he continued to scan the room. If there was an angel survivor, they'd have someone to question, at last.

"I've never seen anything like it," the sheriff said. "Looked like the guy had been crucified."

Dean's gaze roved over to the wall where two trails of blood streamed down, shoulder length apart as though someone had, in fact, been impaled there. He tracked it to the floor, and frowned at what looked like a sigil smeared next to the pool of blood. An angel banishing sigil?

"Plus his throat was cut. It's frankly a miracle he's still alive."

Dean started forward to get a closer look, and stepped on something. Moving his shoe, he frowned at the familiar shape of a leather case. He bent down, pulling out a pen, and nudged the blood stained cover open. The flap flipped over, revealing an FBI badge. Dean froze. The voices outside all turned muffled as his world narrowed down to a single photo. Cas was quirking a confused look at the camera, but the picture had come out decent enough to make a fake badge with. A fake badge and photograph currently streaked in vermillion.

Dean snatched it up and stared at it, then swept his gaze around the room in dawning horror. His gorge rose at the pints of blood that said no human could have survived whatever happened here.

_One survivor._

Dean stormed out of the chamber and back into the corridor. "The survivor, which hospital was he taken to?" he demanded sharply.

Sam shot him a chastising bitch-face, while the sheriff blinked in surprise.

"Uh, Saint Matthew's, I think."

"Be sure!" Dean snapped.

The sheriff hastily pulled out his notepad and flipped it open. "Yeah, Saint Matthew's."

Dean pushed past him, heading for the exit as quickly as he could.

One survivor.

_He's still alive. He's still alive._

Sam's footsteps pounded after him once they burst outside. "Dean, what the hell was that?"

Dean whirled just as he reached the Impala and shoved Cas's badge into his brother's hands. Sam just stared at the thing uncomprehendingly for several long beats that they couldn't afford to stand around for, but Dean's throat was closing off and he couldn't breathe, but he needed to be able to drive, and where the hell was Saint Matthew's located, anyway?

Sam finally blanched as his brain caught up with what he was seeing. "Wait, you don't think Cas was…"

"He was here," Dean said, dread seizing his heart. He shoved the panic down, though, and climbed in the car.

Sam frantically clambered in after him.

"Find Saint Matthew's hospital," Dean said gruffly, turning the key in the ignition.

Sam pulled out his phone and rapidly typed something out. Then with his directions, Dean gunned it out of the lot and away from the scene of the slaughter, praying they wouldn't be too late.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam's heart was racing as fast as Dean was speeding down the road, the sheriff's words echoing in his ears and the scene of that bloodletting flashing in his mind's eye. There was a survivor.

But what if it wasn't Cas? What if it was someone else who had made it out of that massacre, and Cas had been taken away in a…

Sam clenched his jaw hard enough his teeth hurt. There was no way to ask, no way to get confirmation until they reached the hospital and saw for themselves. Sam would pray, if the ones listening weren't the same ones who had done this.

Sam used to be awed by the existence of angels, used to take comfort in the idea that there were beings who were watching over people.

Now all he felt was loathing and disgust. Angels were no better than demons.

They finally arrived at the hospital and stormed straight into Admitting where they flashed their badges without so much as a 'hello.'

"The victim that was brought in last night from the recent attack," Dean said, "where is he?"

The guy behind the counter started at the urgent tone, and quickly turned to his computer. "Fifth floor. Dr. Patel is the physician. I'll call up to let him know you're here."

"Thank you," Sam remembered to say as he and Dean hurried to the nearest elevator.

The car couldn't move fast enough, and every second amped up Sam's dread at what they would find now that they were here. When the doors pinged open and they stepped onto the floor, he just vaguely noticed that they weren't in the ICU. That had to be a good thing.

If it was Cas.

_Please let it be Cas_.

They wound their way around to the first nurses' station they could find, holding up their badges again.

"We're looking for Dr. Patel," Sam said.

"I'm Dr. Patel," a Middle-Eastern man spoke up as he approached them.

"Your patient is the one brought in from the recent attack?" Dean asked.

He nodded. "Yes, though I'm afraid he can't answer any of your questions right now. He's still out from the anesthesia, and suffered some major trauma."

"We need to see him," Dean insisted.

Dr. Patel pulled his shoulders back. "Agents, I appreciate the gravity of the crime—"

"Did you find any ID on him?" Dean interrupted. "We think- we think he might be one of ours."

The doctor paused, looking taken aback. "No, he didn't have any identification. I'm sorry, right this way."

They followed him down the hall to a room on the left. Sam hesitated a split second at the door, terror clutching his heart. But he pushed through, coming all the way inside, only to pull up short again at the sight of the figure in the hospital bed.

Cas was barely recognizable, his dark hair matted down against his head, wires protruding from under the hospital gown and attaching to several different monitors that beeped out steady vital signs. His arms were resting by his sides, both of them secured in heavy duty splints, and there was a huge piece of gauze wrapped around his neck.

Dr. Patel was studying them carefully. "Is he—"

"Yes," Dean croaked. "What- what's his condition?"

"He's very lucky," the doctor said. "The tendons in both wrists were severed, but the surgery to repair that went well. However, the damage was extensive. He's looking at six weeks immobility, and then some physical therapy up to three months after that for full recovery and function."

Sam felt like he was going to be sick. "They cut his throat," he said hoarsely, half in question for the prognosis on that.

"Yes. As I said, he's very lucky he didn't bleed out. But he will live, and I assure you, he's getting the best care. Does he have any family we should contact?"

"No," Dean said, throat bobbing. "No. We're the closest thing he has to family."

Dr. Patel gave them a sympathetic look. "Just let me know if you have any further questions." And with that, he excused himself from the room.

Dean approached Cas's bed, but Sam couldn't bring himself to move. He'd had too many shocks in the period of forty-eight hours, and felt himself slowly shutting down.

But he couldn't do that. Cas needed them. And seeing him like this made it easier to shelve the angel possession thing for a bit, focus on something else. But Sam was still so angry, and that anger was finding a new outlet.

"Why the hell did he take off on his own?" Sam snapped to the room. "He knew angels were out here killing each other. What was he thinking?"

Dean just stared at him as though frozen, face drained of color. Something prickled in the back of Sam's mind, and he narrowed his gaze on his brother.

"Dean?"

Dean looked away, reaching up to rub a hand down his jaw. "It's my fault. I- I sent Cas away."

Sam felt like the oxygen in the room was thinning, and he blinked furiously at the encroaching dizziness. "Sent Cas away when?" he asked, though he had a sinking suspicion as to what the answer was.

Dean shook his head in obvious remorse. "At the bar. I…I told him we couldn't work together."

Sam gaped at him for a long moment, trying to process this. "What the hell, Dean? Why would you do that!"

"Because Zeke told me to!" he snapped, eyes wide with horror. "Or, not Zeke, but I thought he was the good guy at the time, okay? And he said as long as Cas was around, he was in danger, which put you in danger."

Sam sputtered soundlessly for a long moment as a chill seeped into his veins. "When Cas left the bunker," he said in a low voice. "That was you, wasn't it?"

Dean lifted a pained gaze to his. "I didn't want to, but the angel said—"

"Let me get this straight," Sam cut him off. "Not only did you trick me into letting an angel in, who wasn't even a good guy, but you kicked Cas to the curb—twice—when he's just lost his grace and  _is_  one of the good guys!"

"I couldn't risk you dying!"

"So it's okay for Cas to die instead?" Sam retorted. "That's what you gave him by sending him away—a death sentence!"

"I didn't mean for this to happen!"

"We're in a town where angels are murdering each other, and the one thing they have in common is they're all gunning for Cas. Who's human now. What did you think was going to happen!"

They both snapped their mouths closed as they realized their voices had gotten too loud, and Sam glanced over his shoulder toward the door, yet no one came in to investigate. Cas didn't even stir at the disturbance.

Sam gazed at their friend, remembering how happy Cas had been to be working the case with them…and then how he'd been hesitant at the bar.

_"I hope it's okay, me joining you."_

And then Sam had lost time, and the next thing he knew, Cas had disappeared again. He wondered what Dean had told the ex-angel, if he'd used Sam as an excuse, told Cas he had to leave because  _Sam_  wanted him gone. Why else would Cas have been nervous around him at the bar?

Sam wasn't going to ask, though, because that would drive him over the edge and punching Dean in the middle of a hospital would get him thrown out.

He finally moved, coming around the other side of the bed to stand over Cas. He couldn't even take Cas's hand, as the splints around his arms extended past his palms and Sam was afraid just touching him would cause him pain.

"I was just trying to protect you," Dean said softly, voice wrecked with emotion.

Too little, too late.

Sam shook his head as the weight of devastation and betrayal settled heavily upon his heart. "And that…is the problem. You think you're my savior. My brother the hero." He finally looked up to meet Dean's eyes. "You swoop in, and even when you mess up, you think what you're doing is worth it because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad." Sam shifted his gaze back to Cas again. "But you're not."

"Look, I know what happened to Cas is on me," Dean started. "And I screwed up with Gadreel. But we can fix this. You and me—together we can fix anything."

Sam huffed out a frustrated breath. "Fix it," he muttered. "How are you going to fix  _this_ , Dean? Trick Cas into letting an angel possess  _him_  so they can heal him? More likely they'd happily  _torture_  him some more." He gestured sharply at their friend lying in the bed, who was only there by some miracle, or pure chance, since they knew God wasn't in the picture.

"And I will find those bastards if they're not already dead," Dean swore.

Sam snorted in disgust. "Yeah, that's going to make everything better." He shook his head, lowering his voice. "I'll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrificing as long as you're not the one being hurt."

"Sam…"

"Just- shut up. I don't want to hear it anymore."

Sam grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it right up to the bedside before sinking into it. He wanted to feel relieved that Cas was gonna be okay, and part of him was. But Cas was human now, and he'd just been captured and tortured, and wasn't going to magically bounce back from these types of injuries.

And all Sam could think was things didn't have to be this way.

* * *

Cas was moved to a private room, now that the hospital staff thought he was an FBI agent injured in the line of duty. Sam made a quick trip down to the Impala to grab his laptop so he could set up papers for Cas under his FBI cover, and then resumed his seat at Cas's bedside. Dean stayed in the corner by the window, brooding. He hadn't tried talking to Sam again, which was just as well. They'd just wind up in the same old argument all over again.

Sheriff Carlson came by at one point, hoping to interview the 'victim.' Sam felt sick having that word attached to Cas. Cas was never supposed to be a ' _victim_.'

He explained to the sheriff that Cas was an agent, and they'd handle getting his statement once he was well enough—which Sam made a point of saying wouldn't be for a while. Sheriff Carlson expressed his sympathies and left, promising to keep them in the loop of any developments. Not like there'd be any.

Shortly after that, Sam thought to get up and paint some angel warding in some concealed places, like on the wall behind a painting, and on the back of the stationary monitors, just in case any angels had escaped that slaughter and got word that Cas had survived.

Dean watched him with a strange, almost haunted look, then wordlessly got up to help by adding some to the corners of the windowsill behind the curtains.

Once they settled again, the waiting felt endless. Sam flicked a surreptitious glance at his brother. Dean looked wrecked, and for a moment, Sam wondered if this scene was similar to when he'd been in the hospital in a coma.

Which he didn't remember because Dean had lied to him.

Sam wrenched his thoughts away from his brother, unable to find a modicum of sympathy for him. He focused on Cas instead. Cas was going to need them for the next several months. Sam hadn't yet asked the doctor how long he'd have to stay in the hospital, but after he was released, they'd take him back to the bunker, help him heal up. Or, Sam would do those things. He wasn't sure how Dean was going to fit into the picture.

Sam briefly wondered that, if the angel was still possessing him, if Dean would have whisked them away and left Cas here like this. Or maybe he'd convince Gadreel to heal Cas, but then they'd take off…and dammit, Sam was trying  _not_  to get worked up again.

He bowed his head and focused on taking deep breaths. Sam was in control now. From this point forward,  _he_  was going to determine his own actions, and Dean could go screw himself.

He looked up in time to see Cas's eyelids slowly blinking open. Straightening abruptly, Sam reached out to touch his upper arm. Cas flinched and the heart monitor gave an erratic jump.

"Cas, it's Sam," he rushed to assure him. "You're safe. You're in a hospital. It's me."

"Cas?" Dean called, detaching himself from the window and hurrying to the other side of the bed.

Cas's eyes fluttered open, his pupils wide and slightly dilated. It took him a moment to register Sam next to him, but when he did, the heart and pulse rhythms on the monitors slowed down to normal. Cas blinked at him in confusion, and opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out and he grimaced in pain instead.

Sam winced in sympathy. "Don't try to talk," he advised.

Cas's eyes moved rapidly as he looked down at himself. Sam saw his hand twitch, and the monitors jumped again as Cas squeezed his eyes shut in agony, though no sound escaped his mangled throat.

Shit.

"Don't try to move," Sam urged. He swallowed hard. "You're pretty beaten up. But you're in a hospital and you're safe," he reiterated.

Cas flashed a panicked look between him and Dean, still seeming dazed and not yet fully comprehending them.

"You were found in the cellar of an abandoned building," Sam explained. "We think it was an angel base."

"I saw the angel banishing sigil," Dean put in. "I assume that was you."

Cas tried to nod, but that small movement with his neck seemed to cause pain.

"Hey," Sam said, touching his arm. The monitors jumped again. Sam frowned at them before turning back to Cas. "Blink once for yes, twice for no. Okay?"

Cas stared at him for a second before he blinked.

"Looked like another faction attacked." Sam waited, and Cas blinked once in confirmation. "Was it Bartholomew?"

Cas squinted at him.

"Sorry. Was it Bartholomew who had you?"

He blinked twice.

"Was it Bartholomew who attacked?"

Cas blinked once.

Sam let out a breath. So the angels who'd kidnapped Cas were the ones worse than what they'd seen of Bartholomew's. Not that Sam couldn't have guessed that already.

"So, who's the other faction leader?" Dean asked.

Sam shot him a disparaging glare. "Yes or no questions, Dean."

His brother cringed. "Sorry. It doesn't matter," Dean told Cas. "We got you back and you're gonna be fine."

Cas lowered his gaze to his splinted wrists and stared at them for a long moment. One finger twitched, but either Cas wasn't trying to move his arm…or he couldn't.

His face scrunched up to match the distress starting to register on the vital sign readings.

"Cas, are you in pain?" Sam asked.

Cas pried his eyes open to look at him, and it was another prolonged moment before he slowly slid his eyes closed and opened them again.

Sam grabbed the button attached to the morphine drip. "You're on morphine for the pain, but if you need more, pressing this will increase the dose. It's set up so it won't let you OD, but it'll probably make you sleepy." Sam paused to make sure Cas was following. "Do you want it?"

Cas gazed at him for a tense moment as though he wasn't sure, but finally he blinked once in what looked like defeat. Sam's heart clenched.

"I'll still be here when you wake up," he promised, and pressed the clicker a few times.

Cas's eyelids started to flutter as the drugs flooded his system, and he gradually nodded off. The rhythms on the monitors returned to a steady baseline. Sam watched Cas's face carefully, but even in drugged sleep, the creases of pain hadn't fully eased.

Dean ran a hand down his jaw. "Those bastards," he muttered.

Sam didn't respond. Yeah, what the angels had done was horrific and brutal. But they weren't the ones who'd left Cas vulnerable in the first place.

"Do you know where Cas was staying?" he asked his brother.

Dean blinked at him with a frown. He then shifted his weight guiltily. "No."

A surge of fury bubbled up in Sam's chest. Of course not. Why would he?

Sam leaned down and checked under the bed. Sure enough, there was a plastic bag from the ER with Cas's personal effects he'd had on him when he'd been brought in. Nothing but a tattered and blood stained suit. Sam fished through the pockets, just in case, and found a motel key card. He thrust it at Dean.

"Here. You should go get Cas's stuff. He- he probably doesn't have much." Sam wondered if that suit was the only article of clothing Cas even owned. And maybe that pair of jeans and hoodie he'd been wearing when he'd left the bunker. They'd have to get him some more clothes.

Dean's throat bobbed as he took the card. "Yeah, alright." He hesitated before starting toward the door.

Sam didn't even spare him another glance as he left. And with his brother finally gone, Sam's granite mask began to crumble, and he finally let himself break down, burying his face in his hands. Between him and Cas, Sam couldn't help but feel that everything he knew, everything he cared about, had been irreparably shattered.


	5. Chapter 5

Agony dragged Castiel into wakefulness again, and he couldn't help the garbled keen that started deep inside his chest but that died as it set his throat on fire. All he wanted to do was escape, but the pain was all-consuming no matter which way he tried to turn.

He heard Sam's voice calling his name, and attempted to angle his head toward it. His vision was blurry, though, and when a large hand settled on his shoulder, Castiel flinched violently. The hand abruptly pulled back, but by then the smudges around him had solidified, and he saw it was only Sam. The younger Winchester was frowning at him.

Castiel wanted to apologize, but his throat hurt so badly that he couldn't speak. His wrists were also throbbing mercilessly and he could barely feel his fingers in either hand, which meant wielding a writing utensil was out of the question.

Castiel thought losing his grace and his wings had been traumatic, that adjusting to human frailty and weakness was a feat he may not have been able to achieve. But being reduced to this…now he was well and truly helpless.

How had he survived? He shouldn't have. He should have died in that bloodbath. Why hadn't he just died?

"Hey," Sam's gentle voice intruded upon his roiling thoughts. "Is the pain still really bad?"

Yes, it was, but Castiel was a little more lucid than the last time he'd been conscious, and he didn't want the drugs changing that just yet. He looked around the room searchingly.

"Dean's out on an errand," Sam said, as though he could read Castiel's mind. His tone took on a slightly rough edge, however, and Castiel felt a trickle of dread. He'd messed up on the case, gotten himself captured, and now he wasn't even capable of telling the Winchesters what they needed to know before they had to leave. So many words rose unbidden to his lips—apologies, an explanation…a plea not to be left alone like this. But of course none of them found voice in his damaged vocal cords. He vaguely heard a shrill beeping above his head that pierced his ears like daggers.

"Cas, calm down," Sam urged, eyes wide and panicked. "You're safe. And I'm not going anywhere, I swear."

He wasn't? Castiel blinked furiously, trying to calm is racing heart as more people entered the room, one in pink scrubs and the other in a white lab coat. The nurse immediately went to the beeping monitors while the doctor came around to stand over Castiel, and he felt an irrational surge of fear at being prone like this.

"Agent Moscone, I'm Dr. Patel."

Castiel furrowed his brow. Agent Moscone? Oh, his FBI alias. Right.

"I know communication is difficult right now," the doctor went on. "You've been through a severe trauma, but as the laceration to your throat heals, I anticipate your voice will also return. We've performed surgery on the severed tendons in both your arms, and I expect you to make a full recovery on that front, too."

Castiel frowned. He did?

"Right now, it's important you rest," Dr. Patel continued. "We'll discuss long term care and physical therapy later."

Wait, 'long term care'? What did that mean? Castiel's face scrunched up in frustration as he was unable to ask, and the doctor and nurse eventually excused themselves. Sam stayed.

"Hey, I know it sounds bad," Sam said, leaning forward. "But the surgery went well. You'll have to wear the splints for a few weeks so the muscle tissue can heal, and then you'll have to slowly build up your strength again. But you're going to be  _fine_ ," he added earnestly. "And we're going to help you get through this, I promise."

Castiel could only stare at him in dismay. Weeks? Where he would be incapable of doing anything for himself? Where he would be dependent on someone for help—and who would help him? Sam said he would, but…Castiel already knew that wasn't feasible. Dean had told him so. Repeatedly.

Amidst the wave of horror and dismay that washed over him, Castiel wished again that he had died in that wretched place. What cruel God would never answer his prayers when Castiel needed him most, but would continue to resurrect him again and again?

As punishment. Always as punishment. And, given his recent, colossal mistake, perhaps this was just the sort of punishment Castiel deserved. But why did the ones he cared about also have to suffer because of it?

Sam flicked a wary glance over his shoulder at the door before turning back to Castiel and lowering his voice. "Listen, there are things you need to be told." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "But it's probably better Dean do it. All I want you to know right now is that I had  _no idea_  Dean had told you to leave—both at the bunker and at the bar the other night. I never would have let you go if I knew."

Castiel's brows knitted together. Then, his guess that Dean hadn't told Sam was correct? And…did that mean that Sam's adamance about staying here now was genuine? But Dean wouldn't be happy about it… Just because Sam hadn't known didn't change the fact that Castiel had let the Winchesters down.

Dean strode into the room then as though Fate had summoned him. He was carrying a duffel bag Castiel recognized as his own, which Dean set on the floor the moment he noticed Castiel was awake.

"Hey, Cas, how you doin'?"

Castiel's mouth turned down. How was he supposed to answer that?

Sam angled a tense look up at his brother. "I was just telling Cas there were things you needed to share with him."

Dean suddenly looked like a cornered animal, throat bobbing. Castiel felt his own mouth go dry at whatever news Dean had to tell him. Why did he suspect it was worse than telling Castiel he couldn't work with the Winchesters?

Dean cleared his throat and glanced at Sam. "Uh, mind giving us a few minutes?"

Sam didn't respond, and didn't get out of his chair, but just stared stubbornly back at Dean in such strong defiance and fierceness that Castiel was put even more on edge.

Dean gave his brother a pleading look, but Sam still refused to budge. Dean reached up to rub the back of his neck. "Okay, um. Cas, listen. I told you Sam was messed up after the Trials, and that was the truth. And that an angel named Ezekiel healed him."

Castiel squinted at him in confusion. Yes, Dean had told him that…except Malachi said Ezekiel had died in the Fall… A horrible feeling settled in Castiel's stomach.

"I, uh…" Dean flicked a look at Sam, who was pointedly not looking at Dean. "I was desperate. The angel I thought was Zeke said the only way he could heal Sam was from the inside. So I tricked Sam into letting him in."

Castiel's eyes flew wide.  _What?_  Dean had let an angel  _possess_  Sam? Against his knowledge? Castiel shot the other Winchester a stunned look, and Sam just gazed back at him, jaw tense and eyes swimming with a myriad of complicated emotions.

"Only it wasn't Ezekiel," Dean went on. "That night at the bar, after I told you we couldn't work together…" his voice cracked. "I overheard the angel in Sam talking to Metatron. Who called him Gadreel."

Castiel's chest was burning now as his breaths hitched.  _Metatron_? And…Castiel knew the other name…Gadreel was the angel who had failed to protect the Garden! But he was supposed to be in Heaven's prison. Wait, where was he now? Castiel's eyes widened further as he looked at Sam in alarm.

"I cast him out," Sam said hurriedly. "Cas, you have to calm down or the nurse is going to come back in and kick us out. Just breathe."

Castiel finally registered the elevated rhythms on the monitors next to his bed, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to compose himself. When he opened them again, Dean was looking at him, expression full of remorse.

"Cas, I'm so sorry. I never should have sent you away. It's just that the angel said if you were around, he was in danger, and if he left, Sam would die, and I just…" Dean shook his head. "I screwed up, I know that. And I am so sorry."

Castiel could only stare back at him. So, Castiel hadn't been rejected because of his failures? That wasn't why Dean had sent him away? But…Dean still hadn't trusted him with the truth. Hadn't trusted him to help. Because he was human now. Useless.

"I know I can never make it up to you," Dean rambled on. "Especially after this happened…" He made an abortive gesture at Castiel before looking away, eyes glistening. "This is my fault, and I'll understand if you can't forgive me for it." Dean's gaze slid to Sam, and there was an unspoken grief there, too.

Castiel turned his thoughts inward, but he found that he wasn't angry. Even if Dean hadn't kicked him out…the angels would have come after him eventually. Wasn't that how they'd tracked him down this time? They'd known the Winchesters were in town and had assumed Castiel was with them? He was just lucky that Dean had left him that night at the bar; otherwise he and Sam could have been caught in the crossfire, and Castiel wouldn't have been able to live with that.

But…he wasn't sure how he was supposed to live with things now. He had been brought lower than he ever thought possible. Picking himself up after losing his grace and being turned out from the bunker had been hard enough the first time, and the thought of doing it all over again compressed his chest like a vice. The spiky lump that settled in his fiery throat made it difficult to breathe, and his arms pulsed with so much pain.

In that moment, Castiel craved that drug addled oblivion again, and he met Sam's eyes before flicking his own pointedly at the morphine button.

Sam followed his gaze, and picked it up, concern pinching his features. "You need more?"

Castiel blinked once, and then closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see anymore. He heard the soft click as Sam pressed the button, and an instant later he felt the fluidic rush of weightlessness course through him. It disconnected his mind from his body, and with it the connection to the pain.

Castiel floated in that haze for a few moments before its tide carried him away.

* * *

Dean's heart clenched as he watched Cas succumb to the drugs. He could imagine how much pain Cas must be in to ask for them, had his own distant flashbacks of Hell to know just how much agony someone could take. But that wasn't the worst memory that flashed through Dean's mind—images of a stoned, human Cas who popped pills and laughed at the universe assaulted him, and Dean was suddenly terrified that part of the apocalyptic future they'd averted might still come to pass. Cas had weeks,  _months_ , of recovery ahead of him. What if he got addicted to pain killers? All it'd taken for that other human Cas to spiral down that road was a broken foot; here he'd temporarily lost the use of both his hands.

Dean felt like he was gonna be sick. He'd done this. Maybe he hadn't wielded the knife, but his actions had thrown Cas into harm's way, and this was the cost.

He'd thought anything was worth saving Sam. But…but maybe he'd been wrong. He never should have abandoned Cas, his  _best friend_ , the way he had. Dean should have set him up somewhere, like with Garth. Or maybe even Jody. God, why hadn't Dean done that?

Sam was right…this time, Dean had caused more harm than good. He'd done it for 'family,' but Cas was supposed to be family, too.

There weren't enough wins in the book to make up for this.

Sam shifted, startling Dean out of his tempestuous thoughts, and reached for the duffel he'd brought in. "This all Cas had?" Sam asked, frowning at how light the bag was.

Dean gave himself a small shake, heart clenching again. "Yeah. A pair of jeans, one t-shirt. Notebook." And a ratty toothbrush, but Dean didn't mention that.

He coughed to clear his throat. "I had to get the stuff from the lobby. The room Cas had rented had a break-in. But since nothing appeared to have been stolen, the cops took a report and left."

Sam frowned. "Think that's where the angels grabbed him?"

"There wasn't any security footage, but…" He paused, throat constricting. "It happened three days ago." Right about the time Dean had sent Cas away.

More words echoed in his head like a death knell.  _"That's what you gave him by sending him away—a death sentence!"_

Sam, however, didn't latch onto the opening to rail on Dean again, but instead angled a befuddled look at Cas asleep in the bed, mouth turning down further. "It doesn't really make sense that the angels had him for three days and this was all they did."

"What they did was enough," Dean muttered.

"Yeah," Sam said in a clipped tone. "But that place was a slaughterhouse, long before the attack from the other angel faction happened." He slid his gaze back to Cas again, and after several long moments, lowered his voice. "Cas keeps flinching when I touch him. Like…like he's expecting something else."

And they both knew that didn't come from three single blows, no matter how brutal those were.

Dean's stomach churned as he thought back to the chamber full of blood where he'd found Cas's badge. There was no way it could have all come from one body, unless… Well, they were angels.

"They…they could have kept healing him," Dean said raggedly.

Oh god, if that other angel faction hadn't attacked…if the cops hadn't been called to investigate the killings…Cas would still be there. He would still be in that dungeon, being tortured and healed so he wouldn't die over and over and over again…

Bile surged up, and Dean spun to leave the room before he could be sick. He staggered out into the hallway and caught himself on the wall, pressing his palms to the plaster and trying to breathe deeply through his nose. It took too long to compose himself, though no one asked if he was all right.

When he turned around to look back into the room, it struck Dean then how he'd more or less ended up back in the same situation that had started this whole mess—at a hospital with one of his brothers badly hurt. But there were no angels for Dean to pray to who would come and heal Cas. Angels had done this.

What was left? A demon deal? Those never worked out, either, but…Crowley was in the dungeon back at the Men of Letters bunker. Maybe Dean could make a deal in exchange for Crowley's freedom.

He'd drive back there that night if he thought it would help, but he didn't want to leave Sam and Cas alone, not when angels might still be around. No, Dean would have to wait until they could get Cas back to the bunker.

He let his gaze linger for a long, pained moment at the two figures in the hospital room, before tearing himself away. Sam couldn't stand to look at Dean, and Dean couldn't stand to look at Cas, knowing it was his fault…

So he'd watch over them from a distance for a little while. No matter how badly he'd screwed up, he was still determined to keep them safe.

* * *

Sam woke the next morning with a crick in his neck. He hadn't meant to fall asleep in the chair. In fact, he really shouldn't have. The nurse had tried to kick him out after visiting hours were over, but he'd pulled the FBI card, claiming Cas needed to be in protective custody, as the people who'd attacked him could still be out there. Falling asleep at his post, however, wasn't exactly lending credence to that cover.

No one called him on it, though, and it was a new nurse who came in to check Cas's vitals that morning. Sam stood up to stretch out his muscles, and stumbled as he was hit with a wave of dizziness. He frowned. Yeah, he was exhausted from everything, but there was a new weakness to his limbs that didn't match just being tired.

Actually, it wasn't a new weakness at all; Sam had felt it before, recently. A lot.

Guess Dean's repeated excuses that Sam wasn't fully healed from the Trials were true after all. And while yesterday Sam may not have cared all that much about his health, now he knew he needed to be well so he could take care of Cas, since he didn't exactly trust Dean to do it. He didn't even know where his brother had gotten to last night. Maybe a bar to wash down his well-deserved guilt.

Sam really couldn't spare Dean much thought right now. Cas was his priority, but that meant taking care of himself first, so after sparing one last glance at his friend, who was still unconscious, Sam headed down to the cafeteria for some food. His stomach was a little queasy, but he forced himself to eat the toast and hash-browns. He could  _not_  relapse right now.

He bought a cup of coffee to take back up to the room, where he found Cas awake and gazing despondently at the ceiling. Cas's eyes widened in surprise when Sam entered, a glistening mixture of fear and sheer relief.

"Hey," Sam said, hurrying to retake his seat by the bed. "I just went for some food. Sorry I wasn't back before you woke up." He should have thought of that, shouldn't have risked leaving. "How are you feeling today?"

Cas furrowed his brow, and moved his head a fraction to the side in what looked like an attempted shrug. He then looked Sam up and down, brows raised in a question.

Sam couldn't help but smile at how expressive Cas was. He remembered when the angel was barely emotive, but it seemed his short time being human had really changed him.

"I'm fine," Sam said.

Cas gazed at him doubtfully, to which Sam just shook his head with a huff.

"Really. I'm more concerned about you right now."

Cas looked away. Sam almost reached out to touch his arm, but thought better of it at the last second. He swallowed hard, knowing how difficult this would be for Cas, but wanting to confirm some of the pieces he and Dean had guessed at, especially if they were going to start helping Cas through the aftermath.

"Um, the angels had you for three days, is that right?"

Cas's eyes turned haunted for a second, but he suppressed it just as quickly, and gave a faint shrug. Right; how would he know how long it had been? It'd probably even felt longer than that.

Sam worked his jaw. "And…did they heal you? Between…?" God, he couldn't even say it.

Cas closed his eyes and his throat bobbed, which caused his face to scrunch up in pain. Sam had expected that to be the answer, but he still felt ire bubbling up inside him again at the confirmation. Ire at the angels. At his brother.

When Cas finally opened his eyes again, there was resignation in them, and he flicked his gaze toward the door, then at Sam.

Sam furrowed his brow in confusion. "You want me to leave? I'm sorry, Cas, but I'm not doing that."

Cas's eyes wavered with a glimmer of fear and doubt, and realization sank in Sam's stomach like lead.

"I am  _never_  doing that," he said fervently. "And if I did before…it was Gadreel, Cas. You have to believe me. But he's gone now and  _nothing_  is going to make me leave you behind."

Cas opened his mouth, lips moving soundlessly in one word: " _Why?_ " He then looked at his immobilized arms, as if they were any reason not to stick by him now.

A spiky lump of grief stuck in Sam's throat. "We're family."

Cas blinked as his eyes turned watery, and he looked away again.

Sam hated this. Hated that because of Dean's stupid and reckless actions, Cas expected them to abandon him like this, when he needed them most.

Like he needed them after he first fell, and Dean had turned him out then.

"Cas." Sam waited for Cas to look at him again, and then held his hands out so Cas could see them.

Cas regarded him with a mixture of confusion and wariness as Sam slowly reached forward, settling one hand on Cas's upper arm, the other on Cas's shoulder. Cas let out a full body shudder at the contact and closed his eyes. Yet after a long moment, he slowly leaned into the touch. Sam moved one hand up to cup the side of Cas's head, cradling his face as a single tear slipped free to run underneath his thumb.

Sam stayed like that for a long time, trying to banish whatever dark torments were seared into Cas's psyche.

Trying to let him know he wasn't alone anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

The first few days in the hospital were easy to pass when drug-induced sleep was a frequent fallback. But as Castiel's body slowly began the long and gradual process of healing, he found himself conscious for more and more periods of time. Time in which all he could do was lie in that bed, trapped, at the mercy of others. He was a prisoner all over again, just with a different kind of jailor.

Sam barely left his side, which at first had been a desperate relief, but was now becoming a festering frustration. Castiel hated that his former charge, his friend, was seeing him like this. And there were moments when the pain was bad and Castiel was feeling sorry for himself that he wished Sam would just  _leave_. And then he hated himself for thinking that—and for the sharp contradiction of emotions that tore at him as ruthlessly as Malachi's blade had.

He was currently propped up in the adjustable bed, arms useless at his sides, as Sam spoon-fed him broth. The doctor wanted to start him out slowly, re-accustoming his body to food. Castiel had taken two mouthfuls already, but as Sam lifted the third, he turned his head away. He hated being so helpless, unable to even feed himself.

Sam's mouth turned down with concern. "Does it hurt your throat too much? I can get the nurse."

Castiel shook his head, unable to prevent the tears of frustration from wetting his eyes, and the upwelling of emotion of course did hurt his throat.

Sam set the cup of broth aside and gently settled his hand on Castiel's elbow. He was doing that a lot—light touches. Firmer ones when the doctors or nurses came in to look Castiel over with well-practiced efficiency that sometimes felt too much like brusque probing. It…helped. Castiel's heart no longer lurched at every abrupt physical contact. Not that the reflex had been completely erased, but it was getting better.

"You have to eat," Sam said gently. "It will help you get your strength back faster."

Castiel wanted to ask what was the point, but he didn't have a voice. He had been stripped of everything—his grace, his home, his agency. He couldn't imagine being brought lower than this, a burden in every possible way. And, according to the doctor, he would continue to be this encumbrance on his friends for several weeks. Months, even. And though Dr. Patel had been optimistic about Castiel's recovery, there was a chance he wouldn't regain full dexterity in his hands. And then what would he do? End up back on the streets? He'd seen some men, veterans who'd been wounded in war and come back home with a physical disability. Would Castiel rejoin them, sleeping in homeless shelters and under bridges?

"Cas," Sam's voice pulled him from those dark thoughts. "You'll get through this."

Castiel sighed. Did Sam truly believe that? Or was he just trying to be positive? Because Castiel did not see a good end for himself here. How ironic that survival could sometimes be worse than the torture that almost kills.

Sam kept gazing at him morosely. "Look, I know what you're probably feeling right now. When I was sick from doing the Trials, when we still had no idea what the third one was, it seemed unending. Sometimes it felt like I was going to die before I'd gotten the chance to finish them. And…" he hesitated. "And I'm still recovering from them, even after all the healing Gadreel did."

Castiel frowned, and instantly started looking Sam over critically. Yes, the younger Winchester did look a little worn down. He shouldn't be here, then, stretching himself thin to stay with Castiel.

Sam took a breath and gave him a wan smile of encouragement. "It's gonna be a long road for both of us. But we can make it."

Castiel's jaw tightened. He wanted to tell Sam not to strain himself, to go and get some rest. But of course he couldn't speak, and frustration bubbled up again. He did not want to be the cause of Sam getting sick.

Castiel flicked an angry look at the cup of broth, then at Sam pointedly. Sam quirked a brow at him as he tried to decode the message. Castiel rolled his eyes and repeated the movement, followed by a pleading look at Sam and a brief glance at the door.

Sam huffed out a faint smile. "I'm not gonna run myself down, I promise. I made friends with one of the nurses, and she's been bringing me food from the cafeteria so I don't have to leave to go down there."

A muscle in Castiel's jaw ticked. It wasn't enough.

Sam picked up the cup of broth again. "Tell you what. You finish this, and I'll go downstairs myself for something to eat. Okay?"

Castiel glowered at him. That wasn't fair.

Sam just raised his brows expectantly, and Castiel had no choice but to comply. And when swallowing hurt, he did his best to hide the pain and suffer through it.

It took far too long to finish the cup, but once he did, Sam gave him a warm smile and a gentle squeeze of his shoulder before standing up and saying he'd be back soon.

Castiel watched him go with a pang in his heart. How was he supposed to endure this for the next several weeks? If he was already this frustrated, surely Sam would become just as irritated by the situation eventually. And that would be the last straw to finally break him, to know that it wasn't just a misunderstanding that had the Winchesters hating him, but that he'd well and truly earned it.

* * *

Dean made a pass by the hospital to check on Sam and Cas, as he'd been doing repeatedly over the past few days in between working the case to make sure no more of those angel dickbags showed up. So far, though, it seemed like the raid on that one faction's base had firmly declared a winner in that little war, as there had been no further attacks or retaliations. Knowing their luck, however, it was probably just the calm before the storm.

He took a circuitous route around the ward so as to get a glimpse of his brother and friend from a distance, but was surprised to see that Sam wasn't in Cas's room. Dean waited a few minutes, just in case Sam was in the bathroom or something, but after a while with no sign of his brother, he finally ventured inside.

Cas was awake, and turned his head at Dean's entrance. His eyes widened just a small fraction in surprise, but other than that, his expression seemed carefully blank.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked, then immediately cringed. "Sorry. Um, is he okay?"

Cas nodded, and looked at an empty cup on a nearby tray. Dean had to take a moment to try working out what that was supposed to mean.

"Sam went for food?" he guessed.

Cas nodded again. Dean nearly sagged in relief. He'd been so tense lately, what with him and Sam fighting and Cas laid up and potential angel threats out there. Cas continued to stare at him, not quite closed off, but almost guardedly. Dean didn't blame him.

He shifted his weight awkwardly, but decided to nut up and take a seat, not wanting to leave Cas alone while Sam was out, and of course Sam would need to leave sometimes for food and sleep. Dean shouldn't have stayed away so much.

And yet the silence here was tense and uncomfortable—though that was hardly Cas's fault. Dean wrung his hands in his lap for several taut minutes before he couldn't take it anymore.

"Cas, man, I am so sorry. I know saying it doesn't change anything, but I will keep saying it because I know this is my fault. You have to believe that I never meant for this to happen. I didn't think things through—I never do. But that's not an excuse, and I—"

He broke off when Cas shifted his arm, almost as though wanting to reach out, but it only moved an inch before dropping weakly back on the bed. Swallowing hard, Dean carefully folded his hands over Cas's limp fingers, mindful not to squeeze.

"I wish you could talk back to me," he blurted.

Cas squinted at him; right, he probably wished that, too.

"Yell, even," Dean went on, unable to bear the silence. "Beat the shit out of me. I deserve it."

Cas's gaze bored into him for a moment, almost with that soul penetrating power he'd had as an angel, but then Cas was shaking his head, and Dean could see the self recrimination and loathing flooding Cas's eyes, the same way he'd looked after Purgatory when he'd said he'd always planned to stay there.

Dean couldn't help the knee-jerk reaction of squeezing Cas's hand. "This is not your fault," he said fervently. "You didn't deserve this. You  _don't_  deserve this. Not as a punishment, and certainly not as some kind of penance."

Cas quickly averted his gaze, and Dean felt his heart fracturing that his best friend could even think that. And worse, believe it.

"I'm gonna fix this, okay?" Dean pressed. "We've still got Crowley locked up in the dungeon. I'll make a deal and—"

Cas whipped his gaze back to Dean, eyes wide and alarmed for a split second before they hardened into a murderous glare. Dean was taken aback.

"I know, we'll probably have to let him go in return, but it would be worth it to get you back on your feet."

Cas's expression crumpled into abject defeat and sadness. Which, what the hell? Anger, Dean would understand. This was Crowley, after all. But disappointment…?

His chest hitched. "Not so I can kick you out again!" he rushed to say. "I will  _never_  do that again. But, Cas, you shouldn't have to suffer for my screw-up."

Cas rolled his eyes with such intensity that Dean was briefly stunned. But he could tell that Cas didn't blame him. No, the ex-angel was too mired in his own sense of guilt that he couldn't see past it.

And Dean couldn't help but feel as though he'd contributed to his friend's mindset somehow.

God, how was he going to fix things?

Footsteps shuffled into the room.

"Oh, hey."

Dean turned to find Sam standing there, looking just as surprised as Cas had earlier. "Hey," he replied gruffly, quickly vacating his brother's chair.

Sam wavered. "I, uh, thought you might have…left."

Dean's heart clenched. No matter what had gone down between them, he  _never_  would have abandoned Sam and Cas like this.

"I've been by a few times," he said thickly. "Made sure you were okay while I continued investigating the case. There haven't been any more angel attacks, though," he informed them.

"Oh. That's good." Sam rolled his shoulder, cleared his throat. "Um, can I talk to you?" He cocked his head toward the hallway.

Dean glanced at Cas, who was watching them with barely concealed fear in his eyes. It triggered Dean's protective instincts, because he didn't want his best friend looking scared like that…but he didn't know what Cas might be afraid of. Unless Dean had missed hearing some bad news from the doctor…

Though torn, Dean forced himself to walk away so he could talk to his brother.

"I'll be right back," Sam said to Cas before following.

Once out in the hall, Dean turned and braced himself for bad news.

Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched forward. "So, the doctor said Cas can be discharged soon."

Dean blinked. Wait, that wasn't bad. That was actually good news. He let out a tense breath. "Okay."

"And we need to talk about what we're going to do."

Dean shot his brother a bewildered look. "What do you mean? We take him back to the bunker."

"I mean because he's gonna need help." Sam swallowed. "A lot of help."

Dean noticed how exhausted his brother looked, and once again chastised himself for not putting his own crap aside so he could help look after Cas.

"Not if we get Crowley to heal him," he said staunchly.

Sam furrowed his brow. "Crowley? He hates Cas. He'd never heal him."

"For his freedom, he would." And really, what was the point of keeping the King of Hell chained up in their dungeon if they weren't going to use him for a rainy day?

Sam's eyes hardened. "Cas would not be okay with that."

Dean scowled, because he'd already gotten that vibe from Cas. But dammit, this was their only option. It wasn't like they could call an angel for help.

Sam's mouth sputtered soundlessly for a moment before his expression twisted into a scathing glower. "Unbelievable," he breathed. "You're right back where you started, Dean—making stupid deals that could get people hurt!"

"I thought you said I only do that for you," Dean retorted.

"Oh, so you're trying to prove me wrong?"

"I'm  _trying_  to fix this."

"Yeah, but you can't just magic your mistakes away, Dean!" Sam hissed. "They have longer lasting consequences than that."

Dean threw his arms out. "What do you want from me, Sam? I am trying here—trying to make up for how badly I messed up, even though I know there's no way to ever make it right. But Cas is gonna be suffering for  _months_. Don't we owe it to him to help any way we can?"

Sam's jaw ticked, and Dean thought he looked torn before he shook his head. "I don't know, Dean. You think I want to see Cas like this? But deals like that are what always get us into trouble. When's it going to stop?"

"Then what are we supposed to do?" He gestured sharply at Cas's door, glad they'd at least moved far enough down the hall that Cas shouldn't overhear them fighting.

Sam shot him an incredulous glare. "We  _help_  him. We take him home and we help him heal. And yeah, it's gonna be long and hard, but you know what? Maybe Cas needs that. Maybe he needs to see, for once, that we're there for him, in for the long haul. Because god knows we never have been before."

Dean mentally reeled back, instantly wanting to argue that wasn't true.

…But it was, wasn't it? They hadn't stood by Cas during the war against Raphael. When he'd taken on Sam's Cage scars, they'd left him in that mental institution. And sure, Dean had spent months doggedly searching for the angel in Purgatory, but that didn't really make up for everything, did it? And then came the Fall…and some of the worst mistakes of Dean's life. And here they were.

He swallowed hard, shame and defeat settling on his shoulders with tangible weight, and nodded. "Okay then. We take him home and we get him better. No matter how long it takes."

Sam's jaw was tight, but he gave a curt nod in agreement, then turned and made his way back into Cas's room. Dean didn't follow, not yet. He knew he'd have to eventually, have to stow his issues if he was gonna focus on helping Cas. And Cas needed a lot of help—and not just physically.

Maybe Sam still hadn't forgiven Dean, but they had a common cause now, something to fight for together.

It was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to believe, but only one chapter left!


	7. Chapter 7

Getting Cas discharged from the hospital wasn't as simple as just signing some release forms. The doctor had copious amounts of instructions on care and follow-up and long-term expectations. Normally Dean just smiled and nodded with that kind of stuff so he could get out of there as quickly as possible, but this time he listened to every word, mentally running through how they'd put it all into practice back at the bunker, asking questions as he thought of them. He was leaving with an encyclopedia's worth of papers on bandage maintenance, various prescriptions, and a preliminary plan for physical therapy, which they wouldn't start for a while, but needed to have. And even though Dean had a decent enough working knowledge of half this stuff, he still planned to follow it all to the letter.

He was also going to strictly manage Cas's pain pills. Dean may have already proved as negligent as his future self in that apocalyptic world had in regards to Cas's well-being, but that stopped now.

They finally got everything squared away and the paperwork signed—which was good, because Sam may have been a genius with the insurance stuff, but they didn't need the real FBI getting wind of the situation and coming down to check on their 'agent.'

Sam helped Cas get changed into a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt, then helped him get from the bed to the wheelchair. Cas hunched in on himself, his entire demeanor despondent as Sam started to push him out the door. Dean had hoped getting out of this place would lift Cas's mood just a little, but it was obviously going to take a lot more than that. He couldn't tell if Cas was just wallowing in self-loathing, or if he doubted the Winchesters were going to stick by him as promised—which stung but wasn't uncalled for. Hopefully once they got him home and made him more comfortable, they could start to address all those things and work on repairing the fragile trust Dean had broken. Between all of them.

They made their way out of the hospital, and Dean left Sam and Cas on the curb to go get the Impala and bring it around. He had a large bag full of papers and meds, which he stowed in the trunk before grabbing some blankets and a small pillow he'd snuck out of the hospital that he used to pad the backseat with. Then he drove back to the pick-up zone.

Sam didn't give him a chance to get out and help, just immediately wheeled Cas to the rear and opened the door himself. Then he helped ease Cas into the backseat, keeping a firm grip on Cas's elbows above the splints so he wouldn't accidentally reach out and put weight on his wrists.

Dean had gotten back out of the car anyway, but could only watch, tensely poised to jump in if he was needed. But Sam got Cas settled, and after shutting the back door, went to return the wheelchair. Dean climbed back in behind the wheel, twisting around to make sure Cas was comfortable.

"You good?" It was an eight-hour drive back to Lebanon, and Dean was hoping they could make it without having to stop at a motel.

Cas nodded mutely.

Sam returned, slipping into the passenger seat, and Dean pulled out of the lane to get on the road.

The silence in the car was like a heavy pall, and Dean kept glancing at the cassette player. Yet somehow turning on the classic rock and blaring it through the cab didn't seem all that appealing.

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror at Cas. "When we get home, we'll get you set up with Netflix in your room. I can give you that pop culture education you've been needing."

Cas, of course, didn't say anything in response, and he barely met Dean's gaze before turning morosely to look out the window. Dean's throat constricted. The doc said it should be another week or two before Cas's voice should start coming back, and that should help things. Dean couldn't begin to imagine how frustrating not being able to communicate was.

"And I'll make you tomato rice soup," Dean went on, feeling compelled to break the silence for both of them. "It's way better than hospital broth. Just ask Sam."

He glanced at his brother, who remained quiet for a long moment, jaw tight. Sam then looked over his shoulder at Cas.

"There's lots of flavorful soups you can try until your throat is better."

Dean sighed. Dammit, he was making an effort. Couldn't Sam cut him some slack for that?

The car fell silent again, and Dean didn't know what to say to fill it. He decided to reach for the music after all, when suddenly something rammed into the back of the Impala with a crunching of metal. Dean slammed the brakes and cranked the wheel to control the spin as they skidded off the road.

They came to a lurching stop, Dean's heart jackhammering inside his chest. He whipped his head toward Sam, who was slumped against the door.

"Sam!" Dean shot a hand toward his brother's jawline. Feeling a pulse, he craned around to look into the backseat, heart nearly stopping at Cas flung against the backdoor as well, completely limp. Dean couldn't reach him from the driver's side, so he frantically pushed his door open and scrabbled out, only to pull up short as a gangly guy with stringy hair was suddenly blocking his path.

Dean barely had time to swear before two fingers touched his forehead, and everything went dark.

* * *

Dean woke with a start, jerking his head up from where his chin had been against his chest, and smacked the back of his skull on something hard. He tried to twist around, but found he'd been lashed to a piece of machinery with ropes. Sam was sitting on the concrete floor beside him, also tied up, his head drooping forward. Dean's heart dropped into his stomach, and he whipped his gaze around what looked like an old factory. His blood turned to ice in his veins when he spotted Cas, laid out on a dusty conveyor belt a few feet away, with the guy who had knocked Dean out standing over him.

Cas at least appeared to be conscious, as his head was slowly lolling back and forth. When his eyes met Dean's, there was nothing but sheer terror in them. Dean tugged at his bonds.

The angel turned toward him, mouth curving upward in a sneer. "Sam and Dean Winchester, what a pleasure to finally meet you. You know, I'm glad you two are so recognizable. It made it easier finding Castiel here."

Dean's stomach cramped. Shit, all this time he'd been making excuses that Cas didn't want to draw the angels to them…when all along the risk was  _them_  leading the angels to him. How could he have been so stupid? He should have warded the car better, especially after he'd secretly removed some of the protection when Zeke had been in Sam.

Dean glowered at their captor. "What do you want?"

"What do I want? I want to continue trying to find a way to reverse Metatron's spell." The angel pivoted back toward Cas. "I bet you thought you'd gotten away, didn't you?" he leered over the prone ex-angel. "But look at you, Castiel; you're a pathetic sack of flesh and bone, so easily  _breakable_  now."

Sam let out a low moan as he lifted his head, starting to come to. Dean could only spare a brief flicker of relief, though.

"There is no way to reverse Metatron's spell," he lobbed at the angel. "We went over the Angel Tablet, and it said the spell that cast you all out is irreversible. So torturing Cas won't get you anywhere because he can't tell you anything!"

The angel slowly straightened and cocked his head in a predatory manner. "I see. Then I'll just have to keep experimenting until I create a reversal spell."

Dean quirked his brows in bewilderment. "What?"

Sam jolted beside him as he finally came fully awake, wide eyes quickly taking in their predicament.

The angel's face cracked into a malignant grin, and he half turned to slowly bring his hand down to rest on Cas's chest. Cas flinched so violently, the conveyor belt rattled.

"That's what I was working on, before I was so rudely interrupted by Bartholomew's flunkies attacking. You see, since Castiel's grace was used in the spell, I figure he can also be used to counter it. Unfortunately, the sigil work I've tried so far was a bust." The angel traced a finger up Cas's sternum, causing the ex-angel to shudder. "So were the runes lit with holy oil. And when I cracked his rib cage open so I could draw sigils on his still beating heart. Oh, you begged for death with that one, didn't you, Castiel?"

Bile rose in the back of Dean's throat and he suddenly couldn't breathe. Oh god. He'd suspected…could even have filled in some of the blanks with his own imagination and experience, but to hear it recounted, to know exactly what Cas had been put through…Dean was gonna be sick.

Next to him, Sam looked just as green as Dean felt. They had to get out of here, had to do something… Both of them tugged at the ropes, but couldn't find any give.

The sadistic angel pursed his mouth as he regarded Cas. "We never did finish the crucifixion," he mused, and turned to walk over to a tray of metal instruments that were just like the ones in that slaughterhouse.

Cas closed his eyes in abject defeat, which filled Dean with even more terror. No, no, no, he couldn't let this happen.

"Wait, wait!" he shouted. "I'll take you to the Angel Tablet."

The angel paused to look at him. "You just said the Tablet said the spell was irreversible. So what use would I have for it?"

"I lied. It does have the reversal spell. I don't understand it, but it's there. I'll take you to it. Just let them go."

"Dean," Sam sputtered.

Dean ignored him. "Let Cas and my brother go, and you can have the Angel Tablet."

Their captor eyed them suspiciously. He then abruptly marched back to Cas and grabbed his arm by the splint, hoisting him up and off the conveyor belt. A strangled sound escaped Cas's mangled throat as he dangled mercilessly in the angel's grip.

Dean's heart jolted. "Leave him alone!"

"But what if Castiel is one of the ingredients I need?" the angel replied mockingly, giving Cas a sharp shake.

"He's not!" Dean shouted desperately, watching his friend's face screw up in agony. "He's not. He's human now. If you need a human for an ingredient, you can use me."

Cas managed to pry his eyes open and gaze at Dean in horror. Dean just shot him a silent plea to hold on, that Dean would get him out of this. Would gladly trade places with him.

Maybe Cas saw that in his eyes, because his blue ones suddenly sparked with a fire, and Cas threw himself at his tormentor. It did little, of course. The angel snarled at him, and tossed Cas through the air to crash into the tray of torture implements.

"No!" Dean yelled, straining against his bonds more urgently.

The angel stalked over to Cas, who was lying on his side. Dean couldn't see how badly he was hurt, but he wasn't moving. The angel crouched down.

"That's right. All you care about are your precious Winchesters. If I wasn't pressed for time trying to reopen Heaven, I'd take a scalpel to them for a few hours. Make you watch."

Cas flipped over and there was a flash of steel, an angel blade clasped in his cupped hands. He sliced their captor's throat, and then pushed himself into an upright position and opened his mouth wide. Dean gaped in stupefaction as wispy blue light poured out from the angel's neck and into Cas. It burrowed deep, turning into a burning glow in Cas's sternum, and his eyes lit up like azure spheres.

The angel dropped backward onto his ass, gurgling noises coming from his throat as blood started to stream down his neck. Cas's gaze hardened, and he reached a hand out to plant on top of the angel's head. Blinding light burst forth, and Dean had to wrench his face away. When the glare and sizzle faded, he looked back to find the angel's eyes burned out and smoking. The body toppled onto its side.

Cas slowly got to his feet. His gaze drifted down to his hands, and he stared at them for several long moments as he flexed his fingers in and out. Then he clenched his fists, and the splints went flying off.

Dean looked at him in slack-jawed disbelief. "Cas?"

Cas turned toward them, his posture stiffer than Dean had seen in a long time. With a wave of his hand, the ropes around Dean and Sam came loose. They hastily shrugged the bonds off and scrambled to their feet.

"Cas?" Sam asked worriedly, yet cautiously. "Are you okay?"

Cas was silent for a beat. "I'm an angel again," he finally said, and Dean could have sagged in relief at hearing his friend's voice, yet he was also confused by what just happened.

"So, just like that?" he said dubiously. "You got your mojo back?"

Cas's eyes took on a haunted look, and he glanced over his shoulder at the dead angel. "Not mine."

"You can do that?" Sam asked in disbelief.

Dean snorted. "Hell, why didn't you just do that from the beginning?"

Cas flashed him a scathing look. "Because now I'm a barbarian like them." A muscle in his jaw ticked, and he ducked his gaze in contrition, voice softening. "I had no choice, though. I couldn't let Malachi hurt either of you." He took a deep breath. "And if the angels are going to war, then I need to be ready."

He looked up at them again, and stepped forward without warning, extending both hands out to their foreheads, and with a light touch, instantly healed their bruises. Cas's gaze lingered on Sam for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly.

Sam was studying him with equal scrutiny. "So, you're all healed? Everything?"

Cas seemed to remember the bandage around his neck, and he reached a hand up to rip it off. Sam let out a sigh of relief, and Dean was also glad to see the macabre gash was completely gone.

His stomach knotted again at the thought of everything Cas had endured when he'd been captured. It was just like being on a rack in Hell. But it was over now. Cas was back, and he was fine, and they could all go home. Like they should have from the start.

* * *

Castiel followed Sam and Dean as they made their way out of the factory. Malachi's grace churned within him, a seething source of power and warmth and energy that Castiel had sorely missed since losing his own grace. This wasn't a replacement, though, just a substitute, one that did the job but was ill-fitted to him. It didn't even give him his wings back. His stomach quivered with a queasiness he couldn't quite banish, though he didn't know whether it was the stolen grace or the lingering horror of being captured again, faced with the prospect of more endless torture…

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sam asked, jolting him.

Castiel nodded. Strange—he had been deprived of a voice for the past several days, but now that it was restored, he didn't really feel like talking. In fact, he felt adrift, trailing behind the Winchesters automatically, even as a small part of him wondered whether he would be allowed to accompany them back to the bunker or not. He did have his powers back, and would no longer be a burden to them.

They exited the factory and Dean pulled up short at the sight of the Impala parked outside. The right rear side was smashed inward, with the backdoor's window shattered. Dean stormed over to the driver's side and leaned in, only to yank out a set of keys.

"That son-of-a-bitch crashed into my Baby and then had the gall to drive her here. I would kill him if he weren't already dead."

Castiel's heart cringed; he knew how important that car was to Dean. "I'm sorry."

Dean shot him a startled look. "Hey, it's a good thing the bastard's dead. It doesn't matter who did it."

"I meant about your car." Castiel looked at the ground. "Malachi only attacked you to get to me."

He was met with silence, and finally glanced up again. Dean was gazing at him with an almost aggrieved soberness.

"I care more about you than the car."

Castiel frowned. That statement was highly incongruent with everything he knew about Dean Winchester. The only thing above that car was Sam.

Castiel shifted his weight awkwardly and changed the subject. "I'd still like to go back to the bunker with you and Sam. I can be of use now. If Gadreel has aligned himself with Metatron, I can help you find him. He might lead us to the Scribe. And I can take over healing Sam."

Dean stiffened. "Wait, Sam still needs healing?"

The younger Winchester scowled at him. "I'm fine." Sam turned to Castiel. "Maybe a little tired, but seriously, I think I can recover on my own at this point. And you don't have to be of  _use_ , Cas. You can come back to the bunker with us because we're family, and it's your home, too."

Castiel's throat constricted, bringing back a glimmer of phantom pain from both a slit throat and slit hopes when he'd first returned to the bunker after losing his grace…

"Still," he said roughly. "I want to repay you for your kindness when I was in the hospital." He looked at Dean. "And I will do everything I can to fix this mess with the angels," he promised.

"Cas, the angels falling wasn't your fault," Dean said fervently. "Metatron tricked you."

Castiel shook his head. "That doesn't change the fact that my actions led to this."

"That doesn't mean you deserved what that angel did to you," Dean retorted. He paused and ran a hand down his face. "And maybe we should talk about this, because I could see in that hospital that you didn't believe that. You still don't."

Castiel's brows pinched, and he looked away in mounting frustration. "It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"Cas," Sam stepped in. "What you went through was horrific.  _No one_  should ever have to go through that."

Castiel's cheeks warmed. He wished the Winchesters hadn't heard Malachi say all of that. He was ashamed at how the Anarchist's methods had broken him. Back when they were happening and just now, when he'd quailed under the threat of more.

"It's over," Castiel forced out. "And it's not like I haven't been tortured before," he added dryly. It had just been different as a human.

Both Winchesters were quiet for a prolonged moment.

Dean finally cleared his throat. "Yeah, same here," he said quietly. "Which means I know that stuff has a way of coming back up. And I know you want to put it behind you, pretend it never happened…" His voice cracked, and he let out a breath. "But it doesn't work that way. So…just know that we're here for you when it does. Okay? And I know you've got your grace back now—or, some grace. But we're still gonna give you a room at the bunker and you can still stay with us. You  _should_  stay with us."

Castiel rolled his shoulder in discomfort. As much as he wanted to be a useful ally to the Winchesters, he was no longer certain he wanted to be around them if they were going to keep pressing him about these things.

"A room isn't necessary," he mumbled. He didn't need to sleep anymore.

Dean just gazed at him sadly. "Yeah, it is. Like Sam said, you're family."

Castiel's heart clenched at the declaration, said so ardently now, but what would happen down the line?

Dean swallowed hard. "And I have a lot of shit to make up for. Which I'm only going to get a chance to do if you're around." He flicked a sidelong glance at Sam. "I have a lot of trust to rebuild, for both of you. Just- please, give me that chance."

Castiel looked at Sam, knowing that the younger Winchester had suffered just as greatly from Dean's recent actions. Sam lifted his gaze to meet Castiel's, eyes wavering with indecision and hurt that mirrored Castiel's own inner turmoil. And for the first time ever, they shared a silent communication that Castiel not only understood, but was able to reciprocate. In that moment, it felt as though they'd come to an accord—they would give Dean a chance.

They would try to rebuild this family.

Castiel took a breath and nodded. So did Sam. Dean's eyes were wet and his throat bobbed, and then he gave them a nod of solidarity in return. This didn't automatically fix everything, just as regaining an angel's grace didn't magically erase the effects of Malachi's tortures. Dean was right; those haunted memories would not be leaving Castiel anytime soon.

But the three of them seemed genuinely interested in trying. And part of Castiel wanted to believe that he was fully forgiven, that he truly had a place to go now that Heaven was sealed and his angelic brothers and sisters hated him. Because maybe if they could fix what had gone wrong between them…then there might be hope for the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Bet you guys didn't expect that. And it's not a full happy ending, but our boys are committed to being on the path to reconciliation. Monday I'm going to post a song fic to 67' Chevy Soundtracks, and then Friday we'll start a short case fic. Hope to see you there! ^_^


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